Better the Daemon You Know Part 3
by Extartius
Summary: After a period of two years of inactivity, the Orrax are reassigned to a new warzone. But all is not as it seems and events at Cardinal Voldt are set to spiral out of control in a war that could consume the sub sector.
1. He Came From the Ice

**Better the Daemon You Know – Part 3**

**Chapter 1 – He Came From the Ice**

The Orrax moon was the third satellite in orbit around the immense gas giant designated Cygni Alpha 36291. Known throughout the sector as the Penitent's Graveyard, it was little more than a barren, ice-bound rock. Its indentured population's only employment was in maintaining the sprawling ice-mines, wrapped up in thermal body-gloves that barely competed with the cold. The weather systems were brutal, hundreds died of exposure every year and new colonists were forced to adapt quickly or become just another statistic. Only the hardiest survived.

So it was that when a heavily pregnant woman was brought to the gates of the North Bastion, the guards took pity and brought her inside. Her cries echoed hauntingly through the long dark corridors of the infirmary annex as the medical orderlies fussed about her. They estimated that she had been in labour for several hours before her arrival. It wouldn't be long now.

High Warden Griffenbold stood outside the medical bay looking in from the corridor with his cruel-faced adjutant in tow. He'd come to see for himself these strange and unprecedented events as they unfolded. Some complication or other had called for the doctor's own attention. The woman was in a great deal of pain.

'Who is she, Eckman?'

'Setira Corgan, sir, convicted of harbouring a seditionist during the uprisings on Krai 9 six months ago.'

'Was she not checked? How is it that we did not know of this preganancy?'

'Well, sir, as you are aware ninety percent of our intake is male. It isn't in the admission protocols to routinely check for pregnancy. I propose that if she were to attempt to conceal her state it is unlikely that any of our staff would have noticed.'

'Then I trust you will make the required amendments to our admission protocols?'

'Of course, sir. Whatever you command.'

Griffenbold sighed, remembering the birth of his own child with a pang of regret. So many years ago and so much loss. He had come here to escape. To languish in the solitude that had been put upon him by fate.

'What are we going to do with them?' he murmured, almost to himself.

'I would suggest ejecting them as soon as they are stable, sir.'

Griffenbold rounded on his adjutant with a gleam of fury in his eyes. His was a cool authority, not given to fits of anger. It came as a surprise to Eckman to be subjected to even so small a show of emotion.

'Nonsense, Eckman. She must pay for her crimes, this has been decreed, but the babe is innocent. If the Emperor allows it to live, we should assume that he has a purpose in mind for it, just as he has for all his loyal servants.' He turned back to watch the delivery framed in the doorway. 'I will look into the possibilities…'

With a final keening wail the babe was wrenched from the woman's womb into the waiting arms of a medical orderly who quickly went about cleaning and wrapping it in soft towels. Not a murmur issued from its mouth, even as the nurses confirmed that it was breathing through cleared airways. Griffenbold could have sworn that those blue eyes studied him with an inhuman focus. He shuddered under the scrutiny and felt his accountability all the more keenly.

'The sooner we are rid of them the better…' he muttered.

'On that I could not agree more, sir,' Eckman replied.

xxx

Setira glared at him across the polished surface of his desk, the babe held close to her chest.

'You will not take my child.'

Griffenbold was an innately merciful man. His experiences had made him seem hard, a side-effect of the detachment he had suffered since the death of his wife and child. Nevertheless, he was a fair and merciful man, a trait that many thought incongruous to his duties. But he had always harboured a firm belief in the Emperor's beneficence. Those that were spared from death were given a chance to repent by trial and travail. This was his credo.

He didn't want to separate Setira from her child, but she must remain on Orrax to pay for her crimes and it was not fair to force the child to remain with her. The babe was the victim of chance and circumstance, whereas Setira was here as a result of the misguided choices she had made in the course of her life.

'Would you rather he froze to death?' He saw the conflict in her eyes and knew that although she may fight the inevitable, to keep her child was to condemn him.

'Let me introduce you to Officer Dowd,' he held a hand out towards the third occupant of the room, a bearded man in the uniform of a guard-sergeant, his features heavily lined with age. 'He has reached the end of his term with us and will return home within the week. I think it would be best if he took the child and placed him in the care of a certain convent on Necromunda. The Priory of Santa Luciana maintains an orphanage facility at Hive Primus where he will be raised in the Emperor's light. Dowd here is a father of three, he knows well how to care for a child and will ensure his safe passage to Necromunda.'

Setira eyed Dowd cautiously, weighing him up. Griffenbold could see the battle was won.

'I have always been loyal to the Emperor for myself,' she said, addressing the bearded veteran, 'I harboured a rebel, it is true, and thus sealed my guilt in the eyes of our glorious Administratum. But I tell you I was only ever guilty of loving a misguided man. If you promise to take my boy and see that he is raised well in the God-Emperor's house I will allow it, but may the Emperor damn your soul if he comes to any harm.'

So it was with these prophetic words that the babe, whom Setira named Escabar after his father, began his twenty year round trip to Necromunda and back.

Griffenbold felt a change come over him during that time. It was almost as though he had turned away from the threshold of death upon witnessing the seeds of new life blossom on this lifeless planetoid. And when Corgan returned by some twist of irony or fate or the will of the Emperor, it was like the return of a prodigal son.

xxx

A Second Homecoming – 577.M41, North Bastion, Orrax 

Commissar-General Draven strode with purpose down the lander's ramp and onto the frosted rockrete landing pad. His brown leather greatcoat was fastened snugly about his spare frame to keep out the howling, high-speed winds that screamed through the precipitous vales of the Arbiter Floe. The thick, fur-lined collar was turned up and his peaked cap pulled firmly down so that only the triangle of his face was visible. On either side of him his fellow officers marched imperiously, similarly garbed but cringing against the cold wind, nervous of the altitude and keenly aware of the inadequacy of the hand-rail bolted around the edge of the panding pad.

The warden and his staff waited outside the atmosphere lock, stamping their feet to ward off the creeping cold but otherwise unconcerned by their surroundings. High Warden Griffenbold gripped the general's gloved hand as they came together.

'Welcome back to Orrax, Commissar-General,' he was forced to shout, but still his voice conveyed all the warmth lacking at that altitude.

'The pleasure is mine,' Draven drawled, a sardonic smile curling his thin lips. 'Shall we step inside, my good warden, as fine as the weather is today I'd rather not freeze my nose off…'

'Of course, Commissar.' Griffenbold beat a hasty retreat inside, followed first by the visiting delegation and then by his own staff, who cursed silently under their breath. The commissar turned to address the warden as the locks cycled.

'As usual the Adeptus Munitorium is landing the rest of the personnel and equipment out on the berg, although they'll probably wait for slightly more clement weather patterns. Apparently they've borrowed a few transport elements from the Valhallan VIIIth after last year's debacle.'

'It's a good idea.' Griffenbold replied, 'if anything the weather is worse this year.' The Warden led the party out into the stark corridor beyond. 'I took the liberty of having your usual quarters aired out and heated. The usual facilities will be available to you in order that you can brief your men before tomorrow's work. I take it you'll be starting as soon as the equipment has been landed?'

'Of course, Warden. You are as efficient as is your reputation, as per usual. I thank you. Let me present you with this year's crop.' He turned to introduce the men of his entourage.

'This is Centurion Primus Pilus Antios Maxillia,' a haughty, fresh-faced aristo held out a hand to greet the Warden. 'He's to command the Thirteenth. Would you believe he graduated top of his class at the Academy on Titan and requested this posting especially?' Draven's eyebrow lifted sardonically.

'Admirable, sir, truly admirable,' Griffenbold shook his hand.

Turning to a similarly garbed man, Draven presented Torak Bane. This man was not so full of his own pomp as the young Maxillia, but had an aura of power that came off him in waves.

'Bane was one of only a hundred and fifty to survive the destruction of the Third Penal Legion during the battle of Grace Fields,' Draven explained. 'He has been in command of the regiment throughout their occupation and will be on station to help muster our forces for the Crusade!'

'You are to be commended, sir,' Griffenbold gripped the man's hand firmly. He greatly appreciated being able to see the transmogrification of a man from mere criminal to paragon-of-virtue. It happened very rarely.

Maxillia seemed vaguely put out by the attention Bane received. Griffenbold was observant enough to note this, and wise enough not to comment.

'These others are Commissars Bokae, Hassel, Van Tomoyk and Benidon. Again, they are all volunteers for the task ahead. It seems that the Orrax Foundings are attracting quite a bit of attention, these days.' Draven shot the Warden a sly glance. It was unheard of for newly graduated Commissars to volunteer for this particular assignment, the life expectancy was not the greatest and there was little prestige to be gained.

'I'm sure no one could doubt their zeal, Commissar-General. Such a thing is to be admired in young and ambitious men such as these.'

'Just what I was thinking, Warden. It's as though you plucked the very thoughts from my mind,' Draven quipped.

'Well, just so long as nobody mentions calling in the Black Ships, sir…'

Both men enjoyed their banter, but this last comment drew suspicious looks from the younger officers of the Commissariat, which only deepened the older men's mirth. These two had always had a certain affinity and over the long years, though they only met infrequently, they had become good friends.

'Might I invite you and your staff to a formal dinner tonight, Commissar?'

'I would be honoured, Warden, but only if you allow me to contribute to the meal. I had some excellent produce shipped aboard when we stopped at Verdunia; fresh meat, fruits that will make your mouth water and some rather excellent wine from the vineyards of Talix Ultima.'

'That sounds reasonable to me, Commissar. Shall we say twenty thirty hours?'

'I look forward to it, Griff, old friend.'

xxx

'The Grox-tongue was exquisitely done, Griff, have you a new chef?'

'I put in a request for a decent culinare three years ago, Draven. They finally recognised that we deserved it a few months ago. I've been quite impressed so far but this is the first formal function we've had.'

'Pass on my compliments, will you?'

'Of course.'

The formality of the dinner went only as far as the service and the place settings. All rank had been dropped and an atmosphere of warmth and camaraderie held sway in pleasant contrast to the harshness of the moon's strident atmosphere.

Griffenbold's staff chatted amiably with Draven's retinue, the rest of whom had been brought down from orbit throughout the evening.

He recognised Intendant Vallister Koros of the Adeptus Munitorium, an emaciated skeleton of a man that buzzed with augmetic enhancements and picked over his meal in a bird-like fashion. He'd been charged with the monumental task of supplying the hardware for the eight regiments that were to be founded in preparation for the Crusade into the Varnum Cluster. He'd presided over the two previous Foundings and had returned to perform that task again on a more monumental scale.

Other names and faces were presented to him but in his old age it was all too much for him to take in. There were warrior priests of the Adeptus Ministorum, craggy missionaries with beetled brows and heavy frames who looked like they'd seen the worst the Imperium had to show them. Solid men, who would bolster the foundering faithless on the field of battle along with the commissars with their eager trigger fingers. Adeptus Arbites of the Praefectorum, prison guards turned soldier, made up a goodly proportion of the company. The rest was made up of hard-faced veterans from the battlefields of the last half-decade; Grace fields, Five Rivers and Gunga IV.

With the meal cleared away and the tables moved aside, Aurelian brandy was served to the accompaniment of the resident marching band. Griffenbold had always had an ear for musical talent and frequently put in transfer requests to ensure the pre-eminence of his band. Such things were important to his men, whose posting on this barren moon was often perceived as a kind of exile. They broke into a stirring rendition of Marcius' Sonata Dei Triomph and the Cycles that followed on while the formality of the occasion devolved into a more cordial gathering.

A young but grizzled commissar approach Griffenbold and introduced himself as Edric Vaughn of the now renowned 567th. The Warden vaguely recalled meeting a haughty young man of that name before, full of his own piss and vinegar if he remembered aright, the arrogance of youth. He seemed changed, a man where before he had been but a boy. Through the course of their conversation he gathered that since their victory at Gunga IV the regiment had been garrisoned at numerous stopover points throughout the Creon sub-sector. Vaughn was a little grey on the details, but they had taken in the sights of frontier worlds like Carpenium, as well as coreward population centres such as Vundt, Sarassa and even Necromunda. Matured as he may have been by his experiences in the last few years, Griffenbold nevertheless found him to be quite dull.

The night wore on. As he swam through a sea of new faces, exchanging meaningless pleasantries with men and women he didn't know, he spotted the one face he had least expected to ever see again. He had to blink and rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. He was older to be sure and his features harder, if that was possible. And not only was he still alive, but he appeared to be holding rank. The silver pins of a Major gleamed at his throat and although he wore no medals on his breast, the multi-coloured lanyard denoting his decorations was impressive.

He sat amidst the motley gathering of other grizzled veterans. They occupied a whole corner of the broad chamber with militant fervour and were drinking and smoking hard. Their dress uniforms hung upon them, unbuttoned at the throats and sleeves rolled up. Their boots were scuffed and worn in, their chests colourful with the lanyards denoting medals they had won.

These were almost certainly former inmates turned solder, survivors of the brutality of war that was a Penal Legion's lot. Always in the front line or bringing up the rear-guard, always neck deep in the dirtiest, most hellish fights a Guardsman could expect.

The shaven-headed Major sat at the centre of this gathering, with his feet propped up on a table and a thin black cigar clamped between his teeth. He ignored the din around him, content to be left alone. Griffenbold tugged at Draven's sleeve to get his attention.

'That fellow over there in the corner,' he asked.

'Ah, amongst the veterans, truly one of our greatest success stories, old friend. There stands the paragon of all that we wish to achieve through our endeavours here… a truly reformed character.'

'Yes but what's his name?' asked Griffenbold, suddenly impatient, his pulse rate quickening.

'Major Escabar Corgan of the Reformed 567th Orrax Grenadiers. He earned his pips at the Battle of the Five Rivers in 574 after he almost single-handedly took and held Pelloris Ridge.'

The name had sealed it.

'I thought I recognised him,' the warden muttered.

'You've met him personally, my dear Griff?'

'I knew him when he was here as a colonist, quite the troublemaker as I recall. Actually I have to admit to having a somewhat personal interest in this fellow…'

'You intrigue me, Griff. I know you pride yourself on your patriarchal role but I'd never seen you as the hands-on type.'

'I rarely am, Draven, but you see I was drawn into this boy's life in such a strange way that I can only explain it as being the will of the Emperor. The man you see before you, commissar, is the only true native to this barren world that I know of. He is the only babe ever to be born here and survive.'

'If I didn't know better…' Draven had a sly look on his face, 'I'd say that your patriarchal feelings for this particular young man run a little deeper than you're letting on.'

'He made a joke of it, actually,' Griff laughed. 'He used to call me da and said I was the closest thing he'd ever known. He grew up in a Sororitas convent, before he got himself into trouble.'

'I suppose he still bears a grudge, then. I wouldn't thank you either for consigning me to a world of celibacy…'

They laughed and Griffenbold felt new warmth spreading through him that he hadn't felt in years. Draven was right; he did have a fatherly interest in the boy. It was something he had never thought to experience after the tragedy of his own attempt at a family, back in the dim dark recesses of his personal history. It was a strange feeling indeed to see his adoptive son so suddenly and unexpectedly returned to him after so long. He remembered signing the release form, permanently handing the prisoner over to Draven's care. He had made that his final act of closure, refusing to cling on to any kind of futile interest in the boy. He had hoped, of course, that such a pass would come about, but he had refused to let himself become attached. That could only lead to a second tragedy akin to the first. He was too old to endure such a loss again.

xxx

They rolled out at 0700 hours sharp. Griffenbold rode with Draven in the lead APC. The vehicle was a Valhallan Pattern Chimera, insulated against the cold. This particular model was a command pattern, not fitted out to transport a squad. It was filled to a state of crampedness with pict relays, vox hardware and tactical consoles, with room for four command staff in the main compartment and two in the cab, including a driver and forward gunner. The turret itself had been replaced with a complicated system of aerials and radar sensor equipment but not much of it would function in Orrax's malevolent atmospheric turbulence. It was just as well they didn't need it, the first muster point was relatively easy to find there being only one road to connect North Bastion to the ice mines of the southern tundra.

Even so it was slow going. It took them three hours to get there and by the time they arrived Griffenbold was stiff as a board and far colder than if he had stayed at home. Then he had to venture outside and he realised just how well insulated the vehicle actually was.

The wind had died down, as if it had known that Draven would want to address the colonists gathered at the muster point, but the air still froze in his lungs and made him wheeze painfully. Griffenbold saw Corgan standing before the crowd of unruly prisoners at the foot of the stage on which he and the others stood. He had shed his dress uniform in favour of a black body-glove encased in interlocking plates of glossy white ceramite armour. He wore no sidearm, a wise decision considering his proximity to some of the most dangerous criminals in the sector.

He stood looking out, almost as though he was looking for faces he recognised. And then he actually moved into the crowd and was quickly enveloped by their shaggy, cold-sealed ranks. Griffenbold stepped up to stand beside Draven and tried to track him in the crowd. He was not speaking. It actually looked as if he were weighing the men up and assessing their worth. A few of them were taking exception to his regard.

As Griffenbold predicted it did not take long for a small gang of them to set upon the soldier, whose armour easily deflected the first of their blows. And yet the odds stood at five to one and Griffenbold saw no way the man could win in such circumstances.

He was wrong. The first man went down choking, his windpipe almost crushed by a wickedly fast blow to the throat. The second missed his first swipe as Corgan had dropped into a fighting crouch to deliver his first blow. He came back in for another as two more men tried to grapple Corgan from behind. The second man's fist thudded into the palm of Corgan's gauntlet, his fist locked in a vice-like grip, before a brutal twist put him on the ground. Griffenbold would have sworn the man's shoulder had been dislocated, but whatever, he was out of the fight.

A reverse head-butt sent one of the men tackling him from behind crashing back, losing his grip as he brought his hands up to his smashed nose. The other caught Corgan up in a bearhug that backfire when Corgan suddenly and forcefully jack-knifed, throwing the colonist over and onto the ground. A vicious kick to the head saw him into unconsciousness and Corgan turned to take the broken-nosed man off his feet with a sweep to the legs. Wisely the man opted to stay there. The remainder of his cohorts backed away, warily.

Corgan just sniffed and started back towards the armoured column. He aimed a diffident shrug in Draven's direction.

'Alright, Griff, showtime's over,' Draven chuckled. 'It's time to rally the masses to the Emperor's Word… for what it's worth.'

xxx

The last Griffenbold saw of Escabar Corgan was his back as he walked up the access ramp into the Arvus Lighter's compartment. Not once had the two men stood before each other. Not once had they exchanged words. Griffenbold wondered if the boy had forgotten him. He wouldn't put it past him, if only to infuriate the old man.

He could have made the overtures himself a thousand times during the months they had shared the same air and walked the same halls. But he knew why he hadn't. Fear. The fear of losing something he barely even knew he had.

He cursed himself roundly on the inside. Both for having these unwanted feelings in the first place and for pandering to them. Enough mooning around the place! Escabar Corgan had left him behind, or perhaps he blamed him for the experiences he had gone through. Either way, they walked two different paths in the Emperor's light, these days. And that was that! Let it go!

xxx

Biggs was a reassuring presence at his left elbow as the access ramp cranked up to seal the compartment, closing him off from the closest thing he'd known to a father.

'He'll always be here, you know.'

'Will he?' He'd looked so frail in the hard white light of Cygni Alpha's sun. 'I can't be so sure.'

A moment's silence passed.

'So why didn't you talk to him?'

Corgan sighed, his shoulders slumping.

'I tried. I stood outside the door to his rooms for nearly fifteen minutes and I couldn't bring myself to knock. I don't know why I couldn't do it,' he shrugged. But he did know

Everything they'd been through since Gunga, only two years ago. Everything they'd achieved. And most of it Griffenbold would never condone. He would never approve of the way in which Corgan chose to live. He would never understand why he did what he did. Corgan didn't even understand it himself.

'Maybe one day,' he said, and they left it at that.

xxx

As the Penal installation at Orrax gathered men and machines for the monumental undertaking of the Varnum Crusade, the Thirteenth Orrax Penitent Legion was formed up and dispatched for the Ministorum ruled world of Cardinal Voldt. Deployed alongside them were the 567th Orrax Grenadiers, whose experience of urban warfare on Fered Roathi would hopefully prove invaluable. It was hoped that their deployment would be able to bring about a swift and decisive end to the protracted campaign at Hive Trachiad.


	2. All We Have Is Questions

**Chapter 2 – All We Have is Questions**

**580.M41 – Zedina Airfield, Hive Trachiad, Cardinal Voldt**

The Valkyrie's powerful downdraft kicked up a wall of dust from the landing pad as it dropped, forcing Colonel Breton to guard his face with the lapel of his greatcoat. The report had come through two hours ago. The Imperial reinforcements had arrived. Breton had volunteered to head up the welcoming committee.

He called the honour-guard of Paenar Praetorians to order, resplendent in their glossy green surcoats. They shouldered their arms in perfect parade drill as the rear-hatch of the Valkyrie hissed open, disgorging six men in variegated battle-dress. The forerunner was a tall man of aristocratic bearing, clad in a long black trenchcoat. An officer of the commissariat marched at his side in a peaked cap complete with gold Aquila.

Behind them strode a pair of matched veterans in the uniform of the Armageddon Steel Legions, already so familiar to Breton. Another regiment sent to join the two that were already engaged in the campaign. General Vorskad was the Corps Commandant under whose purview the three regiments fell.

The other two men Breton could not place, so he assumed they were the Orrax men. Both were obviously veterans, wearing full battle gear, clean but in places heavily abraded. The leader, a Major according to his pins, bore a vertical scar on his left cheek while his adjutant had an artificial voice-box in place of his lower jaw. But it was the Major who was by far the more impressive of the two, the set of his features telling of hardships endured, his eyes glittering cold under heavy brows. His left breast bore testament to his achievements with an impressively colourful ribbon. Even without this he was intimidating.

The shore party crossed the gritty landing pad to stand before the Colonel. The haughty aristo threw a crisp salute that Breton returned before holding out a hand in greeting.

'Centurion Primus Pilus Maxillia reporting for duty. You must be our welcoming committee…'

'Colonel Yurls Breton, sir, of the Lord General's staff. Welcome to Hive Trachiad.'

'Allow me to introduce my regimental Commissar, Ersztat Bokae,' the Centurion replied, brimming with affected warmth. Breton caught a glimpse of the Orrax Major men rolling his eyes. 'My other associates are General Vorskad of the Twentieth Corps, Armegeddon Steel Legion and Colonel Dremoni of the 232nd Armoured Regiment.'

Vorskad was a heavy set man with a neat beard and craggy brows. He stepped forward to shake Breton's outstretched hand.

'We come to join our bothers of the 21st and 237th ,' he growled, a hint of disapproval in his voice. His regiments had seen heavy fighting in the drawn out campaign. It was evident that the General thought they had been misused.

'Brave boys, General. The impasse stands in spite of their bravery and commitment, not because of a lack of it. I pray that your men will bolster that spirit to bring us victory.'

'Pray the Emperor it is so,' Vorskad replied.

It seemed strange to Breton that Vorskad had deferred the introductions to Maxillia, but then it was painfully obvious that this man had fought his way up from the ranks, as was so common with the men of Armageddon, whose martial history was turbulent at best. It appeared that social standing had determined the order of the day.

If that was the case, then it was only borne out by the fact that Maxillia left the Orrax men until last.

'And this is Major Corgan of the 567th Orrax penitent.' The shaven-headed man stepped up, shooting Maxillia a murderous look at his faux pas. It was obvious to Breton, who fancied himself a keen observer of human interaction, that the aristo sought to remind Corgan of his place. Nevertheless, he shook Breton's hand firmly. His poise reminded Breton uncomfortably of the hunting lion native to his homeworld. His casual grace could not conceal the potential for sudden and deadly violence. Breton inadvertently put a hand to his throat, an image of his carotid – pumping arterial blood – springing unbidden to mind.

'Delighted to make your acquaintance, Major. We've heard much of your exploits at Five Rivers. We hope you will feel at home here.'

Corgan just grunted, a look of obvious disdain in his eyes. Breton immediately regretted his comment. It had been intended to appeal to the man sense of martial honour but it seemed that he didn't share the Paenar view on such things. He hadn't even bothered to introduce his dark-eyed adjutant and the boy didn't seem to care. Breton supposed it was to be expected from an ex-convict.

'I welcome you all to Hive Trachiad and extend to you the Lord General's hospitality,' said Breton, addressing the party as a whole. 'If you would follow me I shall escort you to the drawing room where refreshments will be served.'

'Charmed,' said Maxillia with an aristocratic nod of his head. The Colonel led them through the impressive portal and into a broad atrium at the front of the Lord General's manse. Maxillia fell into pace beside Breton and endeavoured to engage him in conversation. The Orrax Major walked behind them with his man while Vorskad and Dremoni brought up the rear.

'So Colonel,' said Maxillia. 'How goes the war?'

'Badly, I'm afraid, Lieutenant-Colonel. This is a war without any clear lines of defence. The central hive is a virtual fortress and the outer habs are little easier, riddled with guerrillas and terror squads. Patrols have to be carried out at platoon strength to stand any chance of survival and we pay for every inch of real estate we claim with the blood of our best. The place is a death-trap.'

'Sounds like the right kind of egg to me, Colonel.'

'Why is that, may I ask?'

'My men are cannon fodder. We will provide the human shield that you need to crack this war wide open.'

'I don't suppose you'll be joining your men at the front, Maxillia?' Corgan broke in from behind them. The Centurion's lip curled in contempt, as though his uniform had been splashed with pond-slime.

'Kindly exercise a little respect when you address me, Major Corgan. I am Centurion Antios Maxillia of the Scholam Tactica of Triton, nephew to the High Lord Harkon Maxillia of Terra. I will not be spoken to as though I had just crawled from the gutter.'

'Fair enough, Centurion, sir! I suppose you've earned that privilege, what with all the inbreeding your parents had to endure to spawn you…'

The Centurion stopped dead and spun on his heel, rounding on the white-armoured veteran.

'Insult me again, my good man, and I swear I'll have you shot where you stand!'

There was a dangerous look in Maxillia's eyes, his cheeks were trembling with wrath and his eyes burned. Corgan, on the other hand, was like ice, unperturbed, uncowed, unconcerned. Breton instantly sensed that here before him was the most dangerous man he had ever come across.

'Sirs,' he ventured. 'There will be ample time to iron out your differences in the Lord General's drawing room,' he said, fully expecting Maxillia to strike him.

Corgan shrugged.

'Suits me, what do you say, Max?'

The Centurion seemed to take a grip on his temper then. He straightened his tunic peremptorily and turned to Breton.

'Lead on, Colonel.'

xxx

Maxillia refused to occupy the same space as Major Corgan. Unfortunately for him it seemed that the Orrax commander was flavour of the month. Vorskad was itching to speak to the man that had single-handedly taken Pelloris Ridge and been instrumental in the final victory at Five Rivers. A hundred questions bustled to get out. He was only disappointed in the knowledge that he would never get chance to ask them all.

'So, Major, how did you find the gardens of Gunga IV?' the General asked. Until now he had not had chance to fraternise with the man, despite their months aboard ship together. The itinerary of a Three Star Officer was demanding at the best of times. Nevertheless he'd heard both good and bad things about the man. Dremoni had shared with him a rumour that was popular among the rankers. They claimed that Corgan had gained his Officer's rank by murdering the entire command cadre of his regiment. It was utter drivel, of course. For a start there were still many former wardens among Corgan's men who wouldn't stand for such a thing. But the story as it was told to him had a certain romantic appeal to it and now that he met the man behind that myth… he had decided he would rather have Corgan onside than off.

'It was rather an expensive picnic, if you ask me,' Corgan replied, seeming completely indifferent to the General's attention.

'I have no doubt of that,' said Vorskad. 'I've seen little enough of the Tyranid scourge and I've no desire to see more. As to this little spat I've seen very little actual intelligence so far. From what I have heard it promises to be one hell of a spit-storm!'

Corgan blinked.

'I'll try not to break too much of a sweat,' he replied.

The General laughed, trying his best to build some kind of bridge, Corgan didn't even crack a smile. Vorskad had never met a Penal Legionary turned commanding officer before. Frankly he'd been mildly alarmed at the prospect. But the 567th had a fearsome reputation and he was determined to maintain an amicable relationship with the Orrax division. They might well be the instrument of victory on Cardinal Voldt and Vorskad was not too proud to press such an advantage.

Breton joined them, offering cigars from a pungently scented box.

'From the Lord General's own stock, sirs, the finest leaf in the Creon sub.'

'Don't mind if I do,' Vorskad replied, taking one and running it lustily under his nose.

Corgan reached into the box and left one behind. Three disappeared into his webbing. He bit the end off a fourth and spat it into the hearth, allowing Breton to light it for him. His eyes never left Breton's throughout the sequence, as though he was daring the Colonel to object. Breton only smiled. He seemed to have adopted a similar tack to Vorskad. He wasn't going to fall out with Corgan over a few of the Lord General's cigars.

'Allow me to express my anticipation, Major. I was most impressed by the reports of your actions on Fered Roathi. It makes for very interesting reading.'

Corgan sighed as though he was fed up of hearing about it. Vorskad cringed on Breton's behalf.

'Spare me the platitudes, Colonel. My boys don't do that kind of work any more, what with their reformed characters and all. It's Maxi-boy you want, he's the cannon-fodder these days. The 567th is not expendable!'

'Indeed not, Major. I would never suggest that. Your men are heroes of the Imperium…'

'Well I wouldn't go that far,' Corgan smirked. 'They're still scum, but they're my scum. As such it'll be me that decides where they die, not some poxy, jumped up little fart like Antios Maxillia!'

Vorskad experienced a moment of blankness. In the society of rank, to which he had become accustomed since attaining his rank, such sentiments were generally very carefully concealed behind the veneer of polite tolerance. It would appear that Corgan was from a very different school of thought. Both Breton and the General wisely decided to ignore it.

'So, Colonel Breton,' said the General, deciding to change the subject. 'We hear the war is dragging its heels?'

'To be fair, General, to say that the war is dragging its heels would be to gravely misinterpret the situation here at Hive Trachiad. This is not a war in the conventional sense, but rather a policing operation on a colossal scale. There is no defined enemy line, no definitive enemy, and no safe place within the city limits. We are mired in a conflict of attrition. Militant cults and terror squads plague us day and night. The enemy moves like water through the streets, dispersing and concentrating seemingly at whim, making it impossible to prosecute a conventional engagement. We need something decisive, gentlemen, and we need it soon. All we really have is questions.'

'Sounds like a mess…' Corgan contributed.

'The Lord General is fixated on taking control of the Three Spires, but every time we try to put men and resources that deep in we find ourselves attacked from behind. Our expeditions invariably get cut off and mauled before we can move more men in to drag them out of the fire. Half of the attacks upon us are perpetrated by local insurgent groups, opportunists using the war as an excuse to take action, making it impossible to calculate the strength and composition of the enemy arrayed against us. All we really know is that they seem to be entirely made up of offworld mercenaries.'

'Who would have the resources to keep so many hired guns?' asked Dremoni, aghast as such a possibility.

'A question we have asked ourselves numerous times. The Lord General believes the answer lies in the Three Spires.'

'And you agree?'

'It's an assumption based on the fact that we are prevented from getting there. I trust the Lord General's instincts if not his tactical methodology.'

'And what do you say of the situation, Major Corgan?' Vorskad asked. 'You're unit has had experience in this kind of situation, has it not?'

'My unit hasn't, General. At Five Rivers the enemy was easily identified by the ritual wounding they inflicted on themselves. City-fighting they know, but throw in an unseen enemy that could be standing right next to you without you realising it and you've got a completely different situation.'

'I dare say,' Breton replied. 'You see to the heart of our problem, at least.'

'I, on the other hand, was born and grew up in the underhives of Necromunda. I've a mercenary's instincts. I daresay that could play in our favour if we let it.'

'Hmm,' Vorskad swirled his brandy thoughtfully. 'You could be right. I've heard it said that the 567th is the sharpest, most incisive unit to see service in this sub sector. Forged in the fire-storms of Fered Roathi and tempered in the meat-grinder of Gunga IV.'

He turned to address the entire gathering, lifting his voice as though giving a speech to his men before a battle. He supposed it was for Maxillia's benefit. The pompous ass stood in the corner, sulking.

'The 567th held the line at Gurshun with the Emperor's own fury, so they did, and emerged from the killing fields drenched in the ichors of the enemy. They went on to carve out a beachhead for the Astartes themselves in order to bring an end to the conflict, standing alone before the tides of xenos hatred. Such warriors they are,' he grinned, suddenly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 'But not entirely selfless, I think.'

'N.. not selfless?' Breton stammered, unsure if he had heard correctly.

Vorskad laughed aloud. 'Our friend Corgan and his men are of a self-centred breed, of that I've no doubt. Unswervingly loyal given the right encouragement, but obstinate in the face of ingratitude, or so I've heard it told anyway.' He said it with such good humour that Corgan only smiled. He obviously knew of his and his unit's patchy reputation. If Vorskad knew anything he would have said that this man had created it deliberately. He knew the value of his own myth.

'Where I come from we have a saying;' Corgan said as his reply. 'It goes along the lines of; "I will gladly scratch your back if only you would scratch mine!"'

xxx

It was late before Corgan managed to get away from the Lord General's manse. He hijacked a driver to run them down to the regimental billets allocated to the Orrax, a school gymnasium in a more affluent neighbourhood of the city.

'What did you make of that?' Corgan asked. Wheln shrugged.

'I thought it was a crock of shit!' he replied in his mechanical monotone. His augmetic was not exactly what most men would call a war wound, rather it had been perpetrated by a gang of Navy bravoes setting upon him after some perceived slight to their commanding officer's honour. Wheln had saved his own life by performing a field tracheotomy on himself. Corgan was still getting used to his mechanical growl.

'My sentiments exactly! Chaffed's as clueless as the rest of them.'

'I don't get it!' the younger man mused, his brow furrowed in thought. 'Why us?'

Corgan shrugged, 'Chaffed probably thinks that the secret to our success is down to the bully boys beating their twisted morals into the rest of us ex-pens. I dare say that our allotted duties'll suit some of the old boys right down to the ground. But what our Lord General doesn't seem to realise is that most of the regiment is made up of people like Pars…'

'Emperor save us…' Wheln gurgled, his mock horror lost in the monotone. He'd fallen back on communicating so much through his eyes, these days.

'I think we should look upon this as an opportunity,' Corgan mused. 'I'll agree that it seems a shame, after all we've been on garrison duty for nearly two years straight, excluding side-trips. I was looking forward to a stand up fight…'

'I don't think you'll be too disappointed, boss!'

'No,' Corgan smiled. 'Nor me. In my experience it takes one twisted intellect to get the measure of another. They'll come knocking on my door soon enough.'

xxx

The journey to Cardinal Voldt had taken six sidereal months. The Orrax regiment had gotten to know their gruff Armageddon counterparts fairly well in transit, nicknaming them the 'Geddies, all in good humour. There had been mistrust initially. The 'Geddies were mostly enlisted men, free perhaps, until their enrolment in the Guard. They knew that the majority of the Orrax were formerly indentured soldiers, little more than the kind of chain-gang scum that even the lowliest Imperial Guardsman felt justified in looking down upon.

But the barrier put up by that mistrust didn't last long. There was the occasional scuffle, but these occurred within units as often as they did between them. In the end it was boredom that broke down the walls. The recreational facilities aboard ship were less than adequate. The soldiers had been required to make their own entertainments.

Some of this fraternisation had resulted in solid friendships being forged between the regiments. The fact that the two units were billeted close by one allowed this situation to continue.

Shopal and Darron had made good friends of a couple of twin brothers, known to all and sundry as Chalky and The Cheese. They'd earned the nickname by being polar opposites, despite their close birth. Chalky was lanky and fair, a quiet and friendly young man. The Cheese was short and dark with an acid wit.

The four of them were busy spending their first evening on Cardinal Voldt playing a rowdy game of Kill the Cardinal in the twins' dingy wardroom. The Orrax boys were still getting the hang of the rules so they were losing money in wads, but then they were used to betting against Corgan the Cardshark so what else was new?

'You fellas really are sucking it up, eh?' said the Cheese. 'What, are they paying you by the hour?'

Darron looked coy while Shopal just grinned.

'Something like that…'

'No, really, how can you afford to throw money away on a game you haven't even learned the rules to yet?'

The two men shrugged. Shopal sparked up a fresh lho stick and added another cloud of acrid smoke to the room's already foggy atmosphere.

'I mean, it's insane,' The Cheese continued, pressing them for information. 'And didn't you say you'd been on garrison duty for the last couple of years? Hell's bells! The last time I did a stint of civvy-sitting I was broke by the third day… and that was after a whole year campaigning up the ass-end of beyond…'

Neither man was rising to the bait. Darron's smile had faded somewhat while Shopal just revelled in the attention.

'Not sayin' huh?' the Cheese goaded. 'Well, I guess that can only mean one thing…'

Shopal rose to the bait.

'What do you mean by that?'

'Hey, man, it's no biggy. I understand!'

'Understand what?' Shopal's good humour was evaporating fast. Darron kicked him under the table, a warning to let it go and keep his mouth shut.

'Alright, alright, keep your frakkin' hair on, okay? I just knew a guy, is all. He used to make a few creds on the side, no big deal. I hear he used to pull jobs for the locals, sorting out beefs with their neighbours and shit like that, running packages for the odd smuggler's concern. He was made, he really was. Always had money when the rest of us were screwed up tighter than a sororitas' chastity belt, you get me?

'Jeez, but that guy had balls. Fought like a bastard when the blacktops came for him. They say it took three "lethal" injections to put him to sleep.'

Shopal's face dropped as The Cheese continued, so much so that the little man started to grin himself.

'Hey, man, it's okay, don't panic.' He held up a handful of credit chips. 'Why would I rat out my meal ticket? As long as you keep spreading the wealth I don't care where it comes from.'

'It's not like that,' Shopal muttered. 'It's completely different…'

The Cheese leant forward, fixing Shopal with mischievous eyes.

'So I'm right?' The look on Shopal's face confirmed it, albeit involuntarily. 'Frakkin-A,' Cheese howled, leaping to his feet and dancing an excited little jig. 'You really are the genuine article, huh? Class-A, bona fide mercs!'

Shopal shrugged, regaining a little of his good humour as The Cheese showered him with attention.

'Mercenary is such a dirty word,' he smiled. 'I much prefer Soldier of Fortune…'

There was a jubilant atmosphere in the room after that, entirely created by Shopal and The Cheese. Darron looked like he was coming down with something but Shopal was warming to his topic, telling the 'Geddies a few of the stories he'd collected from jobs they'd pulled on Sarassa and Necromunda. He was only glad that he avoided any mention of the Vundt operation. The Administratum had posted a huge bounty on the gang that had kidnapped Tordoph Raize and shot up their headquarters. Not only that, but Raize must have been working for someone and that shadowy employer was likely to have a lot of clout. He'd almost certainly be looking for them with bloody revenge on his mind.

Nevertheless, both Shopal and The Cheese enjoyed their evening immensely.

As midnight came around the Orrax boys decided they'd best be heading back to their digs. They ratified the stakes and packed up the cards. As they moved towards the door Cheese had one last question on his mind.

'I don't get it,' he said. 'I know you boys all got the opportunity to go free after Five Rivers, right? You must've had plenty of chances to cut and run since then, especially with all that cash to hand. So how come you're here?'

Shopal scratched his head, looking thoughtful. Perhaps he was contemplating his own motivations, but his reply sounded so contrived that Darron knew he'd had it ready for just such an opportunity.

'The Orrax Penal Legions have a motto, right? "Imperator Conservo Nosta Animus." It means Emperor save our souls. It's a play on what the Arbitrators say when they pass down a sentence of execution, like that's what you're signing up for when you join the penal legions. I'll bet the blacktops were rolling around for hours after thinking that one up. But in the 567th we have our own motto, because we know that whatever shit-storm we end up in, however badass the Major might be, it'd be so much worse without the surly bastard!'

'So what's the motto?' Chalky piped up after a pregnant pause that had Darron rolling his eyes.

'It's better the daemon you know than the daemon you don't!' Shopal replied, and he turned and walked away.

As they rounded the corner Darron smirked.

'You're so full of shit!'

* * *

A/N - Thanks for all your comments, guys, I'm really enjoying my writing at the moment and it's nice to see I'm keeping my readers happy. Sorry I had to keep you guessing just that little bit longer but don't worry, all will be revealed in due course! 


	3. Rubbing Shoulders With Our Enemies

'No uniforms.'

'What?'

'You heard me.'

'Why?'

'Because I said so. You need another reason?'

'Uh, no, I guess not.'

'Then pass the word down.'

'Are you gonna tell us why?'

'If you can get everyone together in the next five minutes maybe I will.'

xxx

'As of this moment we are designated military police,' Corgan explained. The company commanders gathered before him murmured at that. They hadn't come here to play cops and robbers.

'I know what you're thinking,' Corgan continued. 'Believe me, I've had those thoughts myself. But we'll just have to knuckle down and make the best of the situation. Besides, I've got a plan.'

'And what's that?' asked Grein, a former Arbites warden of the Praefectorum, old school to the core.

'Never mind that for now, the less people that know the better. I'll brief you all individually as and when your part in this operation develops. For now, we're to spread out into the inner city in teams of five or six men. I'll leave the assignments to you and Wheln will allocate you all with a precinct to police. This will be your central point of contact. Iactus Company will man the barracks and provide reinforcements where necessary.'

'I thought we were coming here to fight.' Arines griped, 'I just don't get what this is all about…'

'I've been saying that to myself ever since we landed, old friend. Let's just get on with it the best we can. Biggs, I need you to come with me, I've got something special for you.'

xxx

'Greetings Major, I was told to expect you.'

The prison warden was well turned out, businesslike in his bearing. Unlike many of his breed he seemed devoid of arrogance. That was good, there was nothing that grated on Corgan's nerves more than arrogance. He held out a hand and they shared a firm handshake.

'My name is Commissioner Holden,' the warden continued. 'I'll be at your disposal for as long as you need me.'

'That's good, the paper-work alone will take hours, so I'm led to believe.'

Holden gave him a sympathetic smile.

'You have not been mislead. Fortunately we have three savants at our service, they should be able to break the back of any bureaucratic opposition we may face.'

'I like your style. By the way, these others are Lieutenant Biggs, Commander of my support company and Commissar Vaughn, my political officer.'

'I'm honoured to meet you. Now, if you'll come with me I'll escort you to the pens. This installation is quite bursting at the seams, if I'm honest. Many of our inmates are Imperial Guardsmen, I believe their incarceration to be the result of a severe drop in morale. '

'We understand the pacification isn't going well?'

'Indeed not,' Holden replied as he led them through a staged-release cage operated by the grim-looking military Arbites sitting behind an armaplas window. 'The enemy seems to find ways to undermine any military gains that are made in no time at all. As soon as progress is made they turn the situation on its head.'

'I've been briefed. If you ask me, this war hasn't been prosecuted correctly.'

'That's not something I can comment on, I'm afraid. I am but a civilian.'

'Shall we get down to business?'

'Absolutely. Now, I've received certain guidelines from your High Command regarding eligibility. The men I'm going to show you have all been incarcerated for over two years, their sentencing therefore predates the war by quite some time. All of the candidates are between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five and are physically capable. I should warn you that over sixty percent of them were listed as sociopathic during their last psych exam.'

Corgan favoured the warden with a blank look.

'I'm sorry, are you suggesting that this is a problem?'

'I'm eager to get them off my hands, Major, believe me, but I wouldn't feel I had done my duty if any of these men were to once again end up with innocent blood on their hands…'

'Just leave that to me, Commissioner. Pretty much all of my men were penal colonists from the ice mines of Orrax before they were pardoned. The others were military Arbites or prison wardens. I think we're more than qualified to keep these boys in line.'

'Indeed.'

They were coming to a broad interior vestibule lined with doors that gave onto multiple occupancy cells. Prisoners lolled against the barred doorways, hugging the bars and staring insolently out at the newcomers. Corgan and his entourage ignored them completely, the two military Arbites that Holden had brought with him moved around the room using their shock-mauls to force the men back.

A desk had been placed in the centre of the room with three chairs set behind it. A bulky cogitator unit trailed a thick trunk of power and data cabling nearby, surrounded by three heavily augmented savants. Two of them were male, one tall and gangly, completely hairless and with telescopic bionics for eyes. The other was slight and dark, with tubes and cabling bulging from his scalp and running back to a heavy cogitator unit across his shoulder blades. The other was an ancient crone of a woman, almost completely augmetic. Her arms were mechadendrites ending in complex arrangements of instrumentation and where her legs would have been she was mounted on some kind of tractor unit.

Corgan nodded at them perfunctorily. They gave him the creeps. He was a man of flesh and blood and he couldn't understand anyone volunteering for such procedures as these. He could understand the need for bionics. Many of his closest friends had lost limbs fighting for the Imperial cause. They were still valuable commodities to the Imperium and as such deserved to be fixed up when they got broken. But they hadn't gone to the operating table voluntarily and that was the fundamental difference.

'Right, shall we begin?' asked Holden, gesturing toward the table. Corgan looked at it and remembered his first meeting with Commissar Draven, back on the ice-moon. That wasn't for him.

'We'll stand,' Vaughn and Biggs stepped up to flank him on either side.

'Very well, Major,' Holden replied, unperturbed. 'Sergeant, have block H opened, please.'

The Arbites put a hand to his earpiece, muttering something to the officer occupying the armaplas booth. A harsh warning bell rang as the door to block H rattled open and two more Arbites escorted the prisoners out.

The men that stepped into the vestibule were downtrodden, each and every one of them. They were broken men. Corgan could tell that from his first glance. Their garments were filthy rags, their hair matted and infested with lice. They had skin-sores and yellowed teeth. The skin hung on their bones.

They lined the men up for Corgan to inspect them. He started at one end, looking each of them up and down in turn. He glanced at Biggs and Vaughn, both were trying hard to conceal their disgust and disappointment.

Corgan returned to where they stood with Commissioner Holden, shaking his head.

'One or two of them might be worth my time, but the rest are no good,' he said. For once Holden looked taken aback. He stammered for a reply but Corgan was getting impatient. He made no attempt to moderate his volume as he lodged his protest.

'These men have been locked up without exercise for weeks. I'm no medicae but even I can tell they're malnourished. A litter of week old kittens could rip them to shreds. What good are they going to be to me?'

He turned back to face the candidates, singling one of the more pathetic one out.

'What do they call you, scum?'

'Alreich!' the man spat.

'You're pathetic, Alreich. You're all pathetic. I'm not surprised they keep you locked up. I would have thrown away the key. Call yourselves men? Do you?' He could sense them rising. He could feel their anger boiling up from within. He saw it in their eyes. He was waiting for one of them, just one, to show some semblance of having a fire in his belly. He was not surprised when it turned out to be Alreich.

The scrawny little man screamed as he leapt, his overgrown fingernails clawing for Corgan's eyes. As the man started forward two or three more dropped into a fighting stance, seeing an opportunity to vent some frustration, even if it meant getting stunned into unconsciousness.

Corgan batted Alreich aside with a roundhouse punch that laid him out cold. Another man jumped in from the side, heavier and cannier than the runt. Corgan ducked under his outstretched arms, avoiding the bear hug by slamming his shoulder into the man's midriff, forcing him back to catch his wind.

The next man went for Corgan's legs and was rewarded with a kick to the jaw that knocked several teeth loose. He clung on, though, tenacious as a terrier, while another man tackled Corgan bodily to the ground. They landed on top of Alreich. Corgan gripped the second man's biceps in both hands and forced him up, aiming his forehead at the man's nose as he brought him back down. The assailant tumbled aside to try and staunch a bleeding nose. That gave Corgan the opportunity to grab the man fastened to his legs by the greasy mop of hair and pull his head back into a painfully unnatural angle. At last the man let go and scrambled back, trying to break free of Corgan's vice-like grip. A second kick to the head laid him out next to Alreich.

Corgan dusted himself off as he regained his feet.

'I'll take those four for starters, you can put the rest back,' he said.

xxx

The Paenar Praetorians were a regiment steeped in the history of their homeworld. First founded two centuries before, their purview had always been that of preventing any outbreak of the anarchy that had previously plagued their world. After two hundred years of peace, their regiment had become more of a ceremonial tradition than a fighting unit. Their honour was the only thing keeping them going in a war they were woefully unprepared for.

Lieutenant Hale's column had been given orders to secure a fuel depot on the outskirts of the inner city. He was honour bound to commit himself to the objective, even though he knew the venture was a suicide run.

And so they marched in prim lines alongside two flatbed trucks carrying ammo and supplies to keep them fighting for six months. If their eyes flicked from window to window as they passed down the street, it was only out of a sense of self-preservation.

xxx

Arines and his team had made their headquarters in an abandoned apartment on the ground floor of a run down tenement building. The penthouse apartment made an excellent OP, even if it was unsuitable for bedding down in. It gave him a favourable aspect over a three-block radius and an eagle's eye view of the Paenar column passing along the street below him.

'What the hell is this?'

He called Paddy across from his position at the other side of the building. The vox operator shook his head in confusion.

'We weren't told about an expedition coming through here,' he said, needlessly.

'Call it in. I'm pretty sure HiComm forgot to tell us about this little foray. When you've told HQ, get Shopal on the horn. I want him to move in this direction, keeping an eye open for hostiles.'

Paddy went to work.

'I can't raise Shopal, boss.'

'Never mind, then. I suggest you prime your weapon, I expect it'll be needed fairly soon.'

xxx

Shopal was a shining example of how best to blend in with a civilian population. Kerns and Hassan did well to follow his example. As they'd entered the dingy back street dive bar barely an eyebrow had flickered. Before long Shopal and Kerns were involved in a big game of universal five card stud while Hassan lounged at the bar.

The neighbourhood was rough and tough, the residents brash and loud mouthed. Shopal fit in like a treat, quickly establishing himself on first name terms with the friendlier players. Of course, the fistful of creds he brought to the table didn't hurt any.

As they played he kept one eye on Hassan, whose job it was to observe the other patrons and see if he could spot any that looked out of place. The other eye took in the characteristics of the men around the table. One or two of them seemed a little too flush to be locals. This wasn't the kind of area where people had a lot of money to throw around.

'Come on, Greg, it's your bet!'

'Take it easy, I'm thinking.'

Hassan had caught his attention, nodding towards a man in the back of the bar, talking on a telegraph landline. His coat bulged suspiciously. He put the receiver down and turned around. He had the face of a man who'd seen everything the galaxy had to throw at him. He came over and whispered something in the ear of one of the men still at the table.

This player was one of the wealthy ones, a surly fellow who hadn't spoken much. He still had a stake in the hand they were playing. Shopal immediately knew what his next bid would be.

'I'll call and raise… double the stake!'

A round of gasps went round the table. It was a bold move. He was either bluffing big time, or he'd been playing a coy game up to that point.

'I'm out,' Kerns tossed in his cards. That left Shopal head to head with Surly. The man glanced at Shopal's remaining chips, surmising that there was no way he could raise it any further.

'I'll call your bet! Let's see 'em!' he growled.

Shopal grinned and laid his cards out, holding his arms up in surrender. He had nothing.

'Guess you showed me who's boss, eh?'

Surly just scooped up his winnings and left the table to a chorus of moans. He followed his friend towards the door, scooping up a bundle wrapped in his coat as he went. Three more toughs fell in behind them. Shopal caught the glimpse of a compact sub MG and he knew they'd stumbled onto something.

'Well, that's me more or less cleaned out, fellas.' He stood up, tossing a handful of credit chips down. 'Have a few drinks on me anyway and I'll see you another time.'

The locals had really warmed to Shopal by now, with his affable charm and generous nature. He'd won them over, hearts and minds. You never knew when that sort of thing was going to come in useful.

The Orrax men moved out into the street just in time to see the suspicious quintet rounding a corner further down.

Shopal took his bead from his pocket and looped it over his ear.

'Hey Paddy, you hearing me?'

…

'Yeah, we got a situation here…'

…

'Hey, I was indisposed, wasn't I?'

…

'Rubbing shoulders with the enemy, that's what!'

…

'That's right and we've marked five tangos, looks like they're inbound on your position. We'll follow them in and neutralise. Out!'

He turned to his partners.

'It looks like we've got work to do, boys!'

xxx

They were expecting it, but it was still a surprise when it came. Three Praetorians were punched off their feet with bullet holes in their pristine uniforms.

They'd trained for this, three men grabbed the wounded and dragged them between the trucks while the rest of the platoon formed a neat square around the transports. The front rank knelt, firing at random into shadowy alcoves and alleyways, while the second rank fired over their heads. The third rank concentrated on the elevated positions, putting out windows and stitching the buildings on either side with concentrated las.

The enemy was invisible as always, their weapons suppressed. There was no flash and crack to give away their positions.

Lieutenant Hale dove for cover, pulling his vox man with him so that he could report the attack and request a full withdrawal.

He was denied.

Standing, he walked the line, bellowing hollow encouragement at his men.

'Protect the transports!' he cried. But he didn't really know why. His tactical understanding was nonexistent. He supposed it was the military tradition of the Praetorians had somehow bred the instinct to protect into him. He didn't know what else to do.

His men began to die.

xxx

Arines and Paddy moved cautiously out into the recessed loading dock on the ground floor of their building. It hadn't been used in decades so the alley outside was cluttered with detritus, abandoned dumpsters and piles of rubble. The drains steamed, putting up a curtain of concealment as they crept out into the alley.

Paddy covered the right while Arines went left, his keen battle senses picking up the faint sound of silenced auto rifles somewhere up ahead. The other direction was clear for the time being. Paddy took the rearguard as they made their way towards the source of the sound.

Two men crouched behind a long, low brick wall, firing short, controlled bursts towards the Praetorians further up the road. Arines took them down quickly and efficiently, their blood staining the wall.

The Orrax moved up, examining the bodies from the safety of hard cover. They were almost certainly mercenaries. Their weapons were advanced, their body-armour light but durable. Their outer clothing was civilian in nature. They were here to blend in.

'Police those weapons. We need to be in that building over there,' Arines pointed, indicating a three storey structure one block up. He'd noted a distinct lack of windows from up in the OP. It was one of several prime ambush points he'd identified since their arrival.

These Paenar must be dumber than Grox not to have a scouting screen.

xxx

The quintet split up two ways as they made their final approach. Two of them broke into a hab block to gain elevation while the other three filtered into the wreckage and rubble at ground level. Undetected, Shopal sent Hassan and Kerns after the three and followed the others into the building.

The ground floor hallway was strewn with rubbish, children's toys, broken and discarded, fluttering news-pulp fliers and less identifiable grime. The sounds of life reached out to him, a woman's voice answered by a petulant child, the blare of a radiogram. Doors swung ajar revealing narrow cross-sections of civilian life, battered furniture and bare floorboards, the prone form of a passed out sop junkie.

Shopal made his way towards the stairs. Just passing through.

The stairwell was like a thousand others he'd experienced. The thick glass blocks let in a grimy, yellowed light. The smell of stale urine assaulted his nostrils.

The stairs themselves were strewn with glass. It looked deliberate, an early warning system or just a deterrent to slow him down. He cautiously swept the shards out of his way, careful not to make too much noise as he ascended.

The first floor up wouldn't have given them a good enough vantage so he kept going. The second floor was densely populated. There were too many people in the halls for them to have chosen this floor. He kept on, sweeping the third floor carefully but finding nothing. As he made his way up to the fourth he heard the faint but familiar phut-phut-phutting of a silenced automatic rifle.

He was close.

He slid along the wall into the corridor, checked the doors carefully as he went. Most were locked, others let onto empty rooms full of broken furniture. He continued on, getting closer.

As he drew level with the next doorway he felt a tugging on his boot. Looking down he saw that he'd snagged a trip wire. The metallic weave was looped over the toe of his boot. If he pulled back, there was a chance he'd break the circuit.

'Aw, shit!'


	4. No Way Forward

**_A/n - I couldn't fit quite enough violence into the last chapter so I thought I'd let you have a peek at the next one. Enjoy!_**

* * *

The explosive must have been placed inside the door. The opposite end was secured to the skirting board in plain sight. He was fortunate that he was positioned where he was, otherwise he'd have no chance. Nevertheless, getting himself out of his fix was going to be tricky.

He eased himself down into an awkward crouch, setting his weapon down and using that hand to steady himself. In this position he was able to reach around the doorjamb to locate the explosive charge. It was some kind of claymore, placed to blow the wall out and paste him and his insides across the opposite wall. He felt around to locate the trigger mechanism where the wire went in. He reasoned he had a chance, at least.

He cast about for the tools he would need, spotting a rusty nail kicked against the skirting boards. He had to stretch to reach it, the sweat dripping from his brow sounded like the report of artillery to his adrenaline enhanced senses. With this in hand he took a wad of gum out of his mouth and reached around, pressing it gingerly into the hole. The nail followed it, wedging the wire in place.

Crunch time.

With his free hand he reached back for his wire cutters, placing the steel blades against the metal weave.

He took a deep breath, prayed it wouldn't be his last, and squeezed. The wire twanged. The tell tale click of the trigger mechanism never came. Shopal took another breath.

Picking up his weapon he moved past the trap, now wary for backup plans. The rifle's whispering report increased in volume. Straining his ears he thought he could make out two distinct signatures, suggesting that both men were hiding somewhere up ahead.

The next door along hung slightly ajar. Shopal inched it a little wider open, his movements slow and controlled. A wedge of light slashed the corridor, a hunched shadow clearly visible within it. He peeped around the jamb, ready to duck back if he was seen. The shooter was huddled at the window, his rifle shouldered, the strap wrapped around his arm to brace it place. He was sighting and firing in an efficient, professional rhythm, laying down lethal bursts of accurate, long-range fire.

The angle he was at allowed Shopal to ease the door wider still, revealing that the second gunman had occupied a room further along, adjoining this one. He was out of sight; that could play in Shopal's favour, but then again it might work against him.

He stealthily removed the pin from a fragmentation grenade, cooking it for three seconds before tossing it through the adjoining door. His sudden burst of motion drew the nearer man's attention and he rose to his feet, turning to repulse this unexpected attack.

But Shopal was ready for him. His lascarbine snapped three times, not penetrating the man's body-armour but knocking him backwards with the force. Knocked off balance the man's return fire went wild, punching holes in the ceiling as he staggered back. The merc's buttocks hit the windowsill and his momentum carried him over. Four storeys is a long way to fall, especially when you go headfirst.

Even as the man toppled Shopal's grenade went off. A cloud of plaster dust billowed from the door. Shopal dived for cover just in case, wrapping his fingers around a second grenade. His caution rewarded him when the second gunman unloaded a clip through the partition wall between them. The high-powered rounds carried on, penetrating the cheap wooden dresser Shopal hunched behind and only missing him by a hair's breadth.

The surprise caused Shopal to jump, leaving him staring at a grenade that was suddenly and forlornly bereft of a pin.

xxx

Arines and Paddy worked their way through their building, sweeping for shooters. There were two stairwells at opposite ends of the same hallway. They each took a stair and synchronised their ascent, sweeping every room they could gain access to. On the third floor Arines got involved in a brief exchange of fire, stone chips exploded from the wall of the stairwell, embedding in his left cheek. His return fire perforated the flakboard wall but he couldn't tell if he'd hit anything.

Someone was crying out inside the apartment, a woman perhaps, along with the keening of a child. They'd have to go carefully to winkle this guy out. Arines didn't want any innocent blood on his hands.

Paddy worked his way along the corridor from the opposite direction, keeping close to the wall nearest the shooter to reduce his exposure as best he could, while Arines put a few controlled bursts through the wall to keep the merc ducking.

Then came the clincher.

They'd been issued with a limited supply of suppression grenades. The advantage of these over the more readily available smoke grenades was that they should render the target blind but not the guy throwing them, as long as they were used properly. Arines took one of these precious articles from his webbing and cooked it off, tossing it through and turning away as they'd been trained to. The only indication that it had gone off was a dull crack, at which point the two men stormed the room.

Arines went left, the shooter rearing up before him, clutching his face. He put a double tap in the merc's face and sending him flying backwards through a door to slump lifeless in a steel bathtub. The woman he'd heard was curled in the corner of the little bathroom, curled around a small child and just as scared of Arines as she had been of the merc.

'Clear up!' he called.

'Clear down!'

'It's alright, madam, you're safe now.'

The woman only whimpered and curled closer around her child. Arines reached down to drag the dead merc out into the living room and left them to recover. They were collecting up quite a bit of hi-tech weaponry as they went along. Much of it was far more suitable to their present task than their own equipment.

'Come on,' he growled, stripping the merc's gear. 'I'm pretty sure we're far from done here.'

xxx

Shopal tossed the pineapple in a sudden panic, diving for cover behind a battered old setee. The detonation lifted the flimsy furniture and slammed him onto his face, smoke and debris billowing overhead. Shrapnel burrowed into the wall and floor all around him but somehow he emerged unscathed. Then he had to go and roll over onto his back, which resulted in a bolt of pain lancing up from his right buttock. He barely managed to resist crying out.

'Frikkin' amateur!' he swore under his breath, scrambling to his feet and reaching back to prise the chunk of hot metal from his rump while simultaneously covering the doorway.

He hobbled to cover, his ability to remain stealthy somewhat impaired.

'You still in there, frak-face?'

There was no answer. Moving forward and leaning against the jamb he took his combat knife out and eased it into the open. The reflection on the blade was hazy and indistinct, but he could just about make out that the merc was slumped on his back, his weapon thrown out to one side.

Shouldering his carbine Shopal moved out into the room. It was the guy from the game. He didn't move. His eyes were glassy and the floor was pooled with blood where he'd bled out. A piece of his first grenade had severed a vital artery in the dude's groin.

'Looks like my luck is holding up,' Shopal remarked, prodding Surly with his boot. 'Too bad for you, Mac!'

He picked up the man's rifle. It was a sweet one, with a long, matt-black body and folding wire stock with an integral recoil shock absorber. The barrel was short, specifically designed to receive the thick tube of the muzzle-suppressor. No flash and very little sound, the weapon of a dedicated infiltrator. The sight was expensive too, with infra red and night-fighting filter settings, precision rangefinder and a moulded rubber cushion that would allow the shooter to keep his eye on the sight when sniping.

It was a nice trophy. Shopal fumbled around for the man's reloads. He took the man's cash too. After all, he wouldn't need it any more and most of had belonged to Shopal anyway only a half hour before. This done he moved to the window, crouching down behind the sill and taking a good look at what was happening out in the street.

Three blocks south the Paenar were bogged down in the middle of the street, coming under heavy fire. Down below him he could make out the other three members of the team they'd followed in. Kerns was down with a bullet through the shoulder. Hassan was pinned, unable to get to his partner.

'Time to see what this baby can do.'

Shopal settled the stock into his shoulder, setting the ROF selector to single-shot. He picked out the guy that was keeping Hassan pinned. From this angle the dude was visible from the shoulders up, whereas Hassan might only be able to see the muzzle of his gun.

The rifle's recoil was minimal, a satisfying thud soaked up by the shock absorbers. The bullet threw up a spout of dust as it ricocheted from the asphalt. Shopal resighted, adjusting the rangefinder. At this range the wind wouldn't be a factor, which could only be a good thing as Shopal was no sniper.

His second shot gave rise to a cloud of red mist. The gunman hadn't spotted the first shot. If he had he might have had the sense to duck back. Shopal smiled a wicked smile and sighted on the second man. Just as he had the guy zeroed the merc turned his head and noticed that his buddy was down. Shopal's third shot tore through his sternum just as he spun to his feet. It spoiled the perfect headshot he'd been gunning for but dropped him nevertheless.

The third man got away, disappearing into a bolthole in the side of the nearest building. Shopal remained in place as Hassan worked his way over to Kerns to administer some triage, but the last of the gunmen didn't reappear so Shopal made his way back down to ground level.

'There's a body over there, go get his gear then we'll work our way up the street.'

xxx

The fire coming down on them had slackened off a little. Nevertheless the Praetorians were still bogged down, their return fire next to useless against a well-concealed enemy.

Hale had hunkered down in the shelter of the flatbed truck, the vox horn once again pressed to his ear.

'I'm telling you sir, there is no way forward. We can't get our attackers zeroed and we're coming under heavy fire…'

'Your orders stand, lieutenant,' came the calm and self-assured voice of the tactical officer.

'There won't be enough of us left to hold the depot at this rate. At least send us some reinforcements, sir…' as he said this his platoon sergeant slapped him on the shoulder and shouted "They're already here!". Hale turned to see an Armageddon pattern Chimera rolling up behind their position. The multilaser turret was blazing away at the building down the left hand side of the street. The officer turned back to the vox.

'Scratch that, it appears our reinforcements have just arrived.'

'What reinforcements,' asked the operator, but the Praetorian had already dropped the horn back onto its stirrup.

The Chimera sloughed to a halt, tearing up the asphalt with the grinding of its tracks. The rear door slammed open and a squad of plain clothed troopers piled out, led by a shaven-headed man with a long vertical scar on his left cheek.

'Who's in charge here?' he bellowed, completely unperturbed by the enemy fire lancing down on their position.

'Lieutenant Hale, sir, I'm in command of this column.'

The man rounded on him, an expression of cold fury on his face.

'And what kind of a defensive position do you call this? Get your men off the street, lieutenant!'

Hale was conditioned to follow orders, it didn't even register that this man was not a Praetorian. He reacted as instructed, waving his men into the building on the left hand side of the street. Scarface turned and waved the Chimera forward, it shoved the supply trucks out of the way to gain a forward position in the column where the enemy fire was coming down heaviest. It formed an effective barrier in front of the wounded Praetorians, small arms fire could do nothing more than mar the paintwork.

'Get your wounded mounted up, Hale. My friends here will run them back to the infirmary.'

'Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.' He had no idea what rank the man held, but he would have called him anything at that point.

'Don't thank me yet, Lieutenant, we've still got plenty of heads to crack.'

xxx

The fighting was savage. Hale's men followed the Orrax as they stormed their way through the tenement buildings. He studied their techniques as closely as he could, seeing how they sealed off all the ground floor exits and covered the first floor windows with teams outside, ensconced in heavy cover.

Faced with no place to go the mercenaries would generally surrender. He saw more than a couple of them beaten into unconsciousness after they'd winged or killed an Orrax soldier. Somehow, despite his intimate knowledge of the Rules of War, he couldn't bring himself to blame these men. He felt like wringing a few necks himself.

He stuck close to the Orrax Major, awed at the man's forceful personality. Hale's men obeyed his orders because they were well drilled, raised from their formative years in the military traditions of the Praetorian, techniques that Hale was rapidly coming to realise were obsolete. The Orrax were known to be criminals, drawn from population centres throughout the sector. He had imagined they would be reluctant and unruly, insubordinate riffraff with little motivation.

What he saw was in stark contrast to this assumption. The Orrax men were surly and uncouth, to be sure, scruffy in appearance, often sporting hair that was longer than regulation and with manifold tattoos. Many also wore facial hair, a thing that had no place in the Praetorian military. But they were far from insubordinate.

When they moved through the streets they would overlap in twos, one pair covering the advance of the other until they reached a secure position, allowing the covering team to leapfrog forward. They kept low to the ground, presenting less of a target to potential enemies. Their return fire was controlled and deadly accurate, forcing enemy shooters to duck back, occasionally bringing them screaming from their elevated vantage points to smack wetly on the pavement. They instinctively knew where the enemy would be hiding, stuffing grenades through cracks in the walls and flushing them out of their boltholes. When they assaulted a room they did so without hesitation and with maximum prejudice, driven by the rush of adrenaline.

The man in charge, Major Corgan, hardly needed to direct them. They'd been schooled to use their brains in conjunction with their other senses. When he was required to bark out orders, the Orrax men jumped to it. He never had to repeat himself or explain himself. In some ways they were more disciplined than Hale's own troops and he was left with no illusions as to their effectiveness.

He followed Corgan as they swept through a sprawling habitation complex. He struggled to keep up. In his haste he nearly tripped over the corpse of a dead mercenary. The distraction almost caused him to overshoot the Major's new position. The hard-faced officer caught hold of his uniform at the neck and dragged him back as bullets ripped through the air close to his head.

A grenade went in and they followed the explosion through, gunning down a dazed merc and sending civilians screaming in all directions.

Hale nearly lost his bearings as they emerged into an overgrown garden in between habs. He'd lost sight of the Orrax and headed cautiously in the direction of gunfire. Suddenly a figure loomed out of the greenery. He raised his as yet unfired pistol to defend himself but his shot went wild. The figure swore at him, batting the pistol aside.

'Watch where you're pointing that thing, Paenarse!'

It was one of the Orrax. They'd bound white bands around the barrels of their weapons to differentiate themselves from the mercs. In his panic he'd not only missed his target but also the indicator that this man was friendly.

'Sorry,' Hale muttered as the man charged past.

He followed on, catching up with the Major at the foot of a broad mezzanine stairwell. A withering hail of gunfire tore the upper balustrades apart as the Orrax covered their ascending fire team. It was a wonder that they hadn't killed any civilians yet with all this indiscriminate fire.

'Major, aren't you concerned about hitting innocents?'

'I suppose if you were a civvy you'd be venturing out to buy groceries or something?'

'I suppose not, but…'

'This is a war, Lieutenant, casualties will occur on both sides and in between. If we stop to think about it we die. Besides, you'll find that most civilians have a stronger sense of self-preservation than any soldier. They'll keep their heads down.'

The fight was moving on up the stairwell. Major Corgan followed his men, adding his own weapon to the weight of fire. Hale snapped off a couple of shots, just to feel like he was contributing.

'Where are your men, Lieutenant Hale?'

The Praetorian cast about, not seeing a single green uniform.

'Uh, I seem to have become separated from my unit, Major.'

The look on the man's face caused Hale's cheeks to flush with shame. He'd taken his eye off the ball in his haste to keep up with his allies. Nevertheless, he kept on Corgan's heels like a lost puppy, not knowing what else he could do.

They piled up the stairs and onto the fifth floor. The Major clasped hands with a large, bearded man. His face was scratched and oozing blood onto his collar but he was otherwise fit for the fight.

'Glad you finally caught up,' he said. 'We've managed to contain about five of them on the floor above. They've been keeping us at bay but we should be able to storm them now that we've got the bodies to do it.'

'They won't surrender?'

'Apparently not.'

Corgan turned to Hale.

'You ever killed a man, Lieutenant?'

Hale shook his head, his eyes going wide.

'Then now's your chance. I'm gonna put a smoke grenade up these stairs then you, me and Arines here are gonna do a sweep. Got it?'

He nodded, numbness seeping through his limbs.

'And watch what you're shooting at. When one of us says "thunder" the other says "clap", understood?'

'Yes, sir. Thunder clap!'

Corgan turned away and tossed a canister up into the hallway above them. It clattered to stillness before it cracked open with a loud report. A hissing sound echoed down the stairwell. Other than this everything had gone eerily quiet. Hale couldn't meet the eyes of the hardened veterans surrounding him. He felt small and overexposed. He checked his pistol, hands shaking. When Corgan didn't give the word straight away he checked it again, just to be sure.

'GO!'

The two men hared on up the stairs. Hale followed a second behind them. They split two ways, carbines held at hip level, ready to pulverise any resistance they met. He followed the lumbering silhouette of Arines, whose indistinct arm waved at him to cover a door on the left.

To Hale the doorway might just have easily been a portal to the netherworld. Smoke filled the corridor and the room beyond. It cloyed in the back of his throat and dampened his senses.

He stepped through the door. Something crunched underfoot. If it didn't kill him he didn't care. In a near crouch he advanced into what he thought might be the middle of a large living room. Furniture loomed around him, seeming twice the size as it should be, while at the same time lacking any detail. He felt cut adrift, with only the comforting weight of his laspistol to connect him to the real world.

There was shooting off to his left. He whirled, pointing his weapon inertly in that direction. Silence engulfed him again. Her got an itch between his shoulder blades and spun again, his finger almost clenching on the trigger in pure terror.

He felt too exposed. He moved towards where the wall must be, reassured by its solidity against his shoulder blades. He slid along, finding the corner of the room occupied by a wooden dresser full of cheap crockery that was, nevertheless, displayed as though it was expensive antique china. He moved onto the adjoining wall, finding a door. He moved through. The smoke wasn't quite as thick here, the world contracted womblike around him.

More gunfire, closer to hand now, the distinctive snap-crack of a lascarbine. Most of the mercs used solid slug weaponry so this must be Arines. He slid a little further into the room.

Suddenly a silhouette materialised out of the smoke, a figure with his back to Hale, holding a weapon at the hip. Hale froze, unable to tell whether it was friend or foe.

The figure fired his weapon, the chatter of a silenced automatic ripping through the near silence.

He was hostile.

Hale reacted.

His las-bolt entered the man's head through the base of the skull and the merc dropped lifeless to the floor.

'Thunder!' came the gruff voice of Arines.

'Clap!'

'Clear at this end!' came the more distant voice of the Major.

'Clear over here, too. The rest must have found a way up to the roof,' Arines replied. Corgan stalked into the room, his carbine at his side.

'Then we find a way up there ourselves.'

Hale moved over to a metal door in the corner of the room.

'What about in here?' he asked as he reached for the handle.

'Wait!' Corgan bellowed, but it was too late. Hale heard the click of a trigger mechanism, the hiss of propellant, and then the door exploded outward, throwing him against a wall. He bounced onto his face, surrounded by smoke and heat, dust and rubble. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, he must have gotten a piece of the door in there. Then he coughed, alarmed to see the floorboards spattered with red.

'Oh!' he heard, one of his allies standing nearby. He tried to ask for help but his mouth wouldn't work. 'That's bad!'

'MEDIC!!!'

Hale fought through the shell-shock. All he found on the other side was a world of pain.


	5. Take Me Back to Cassendaro

Corgan didn't stop to make sure Hale was attended to. He took advantage of the man's mistake and dived through the door. A short flight of steps led out onto the flat roof. Casting about he caught a movement in the corner of his eye.

He dived, rolling to his feet behind a ventilation hood with his assault las primed. Ducking quickly out and back he realised that they were gone.

The mercs had rigged a zip-line as their last ditch attempt at escape. At this end it was fixed to an aerial mast and it dropped diagonally over a crossroads to a lower roof some two blocks away. Corgan moved to the lip of the roof, lasgun barking, but they were moving too fast and were already out of range.

Looping his weapon over the line he gripped it with both hands and kicked off into open air. He heard Arines swearing and shouting behind him as he accelerated away.

The crossroads passed below him as he accelerated rapidly and unchecked down the line. Civilians and soldiers were visible moving through the area, the streets resembled nothing less than a kicked up anthill from this altitude. But he didn't have time to admire the view. The wind whipped at him, his shoulders protesting against the strain and his eyes watering. The rifle hissed and kicked up a trail of sparks from the friction of his reckless descent.

He started to wonder how he was going to slow down.

The mercs had stashed specialist equipment on the roof, allowing them to descend with a modicum of safety, breaking as they neared the opposite rooftop for a controlled landing. Corgan had nothing.

On the plus side, as the rearmost merc slowed down at the tail-end of his descent, it meant that Corgan's headlong flight could make up a lot of lost distance in the final seconds.

The trailing merc broke his fall. Having only just detached himself from the line and not seeing Corgan until the very last moment, he was still in a prime position to act as a living mattress.

Nevertheless, the impact winded them both. It was a good thing none of the man's friends had hung around to cover his back.

Corgan recovered first, he'd been braced for his landing. He put a hellpistol round through the man's knee and clobbered him over the head before haring off after the others.

A collection of planks bridged a narrow alleyway between this building and the next. He bounded over with an adrenaline rush buzzing in his ears. He leapt over a skylight, spotting the black-clad form of his next mark up ahead, weaving in between a forest of solar energy vanes.

Picking his route almost subconsciously he closed quickly with his quarry. The man turned at the last second, eyes wide in surprise as he realised it wasn't his buddy after all. His face froze eternally in that expression as Corgan's las-round passed between his lips and up through the roof of his mouth.

Corgan didn't even pause. Beyond the solar vanes the roof was flat and featureless, the gap between this building and the next had no bridge. Corgan stepped up and leapt on the run, arms cart-wheeling, time contracting around him, a single moment drawing out into a virtual eternity until the jarring impact of his landing shuddered up through his legs.

He rolled out of it, knowing that he would be nursing bruises for days, and came back to his feet running.

He barely evaded the concentrated fire of a concealed mercenary left behind to cover their escape. His hellpistol cracked again, a lucky shot drilling through the man's magazine and sparking off the caseless ammunition inside. The shooter's weapon exploded in his hands, putting him out of the fight.

Corgan drove onward, leaping another gap, heedless of the three-storey drop.

This building was still in the early stages of construction, at the edge of a large rejuvenation programme full of skeletal, half-built structures, piled high with building supplies and riddled with heavy machinery. Scaffolds wrapped in green, nylon mesh faced out the buildings and huge crane assemblies punctuated the urban skyline.

The floors were little more than concrete slabs that hadn't even been plumbed in yet. Ladders and cage-lifts provided access for the absent workmen. There were no walls, just steel uprights and cross-struts. Piles of flak board and rockcrete blocks waiting to be erected provided the only cover.

Shots rang out as Corgan leapt the gap and rolled behind a stack of rockrete blocks, bullets screaming like fighting cats as they ricocheted from the floor and steelwork. Corgan fired blind in the direction they'd come from.

He heard shouting and realised they'd turned at bay, seeking to use the layout of the building against him. What they didn't know was that Corgan had made his bones in the Underhive. If anyone had the advantage in this maze, he'd bet his last credit it was him.

He leapt from cover, diving into an area of deep shadow, piled high with building supplies and draped with tarpaulins. A ladder offered him access to the floors above or below, but he didn't take it. He slipped into a narrow crevice, hoisting himself up onto a large crate, and waited.

At least one of the frakkers must have seen where he went. With any luck he'd follow Corgan in without waiting for backup, but if not, Corgan was confident he could get the drop on multiple opponents from his hiding place.

The shadows below shifted, betraying the presence of one or more men just outside the darker environs. He could just about make out a murmuring. They were using micro-beads to co-ordinate their movements, now. That was bad. He'd have to try and create a little confusion to gain an advantage.

He slid towards the back of the crate, away from the ladder and the closing vice of his quarry turned hunter. Easing himself down he waited as his eyes became accustomed to the murk, then started to make his way through a narrow maze of gaps between the stacked up crates and supplies.

He found a box full of cadmium plated, hexagonal nuts, big, industrial sized things that weighed heavily in the palm. He put a handful in his pocket and moved on. Before emerging from cover he took a moment to scan what he could of the building beyond, listening hard for any sound out of place.

Nothing.

He crept out, doubling around to come up behind the man that had fired on him before. He'd put his pistol away and taken out a broad bladed combat knife, holding it reversed in his right hand.

The merc was hunched behind a stack of planks and iron scaffolding pipes, his gun trained on the darkness Corgan had disappeared into. Corgan crept closer, knife poised. The man's bead crackled and he responded to whatever had been said.

'Roger, flush him towards me and keep your head down…'

_Poor sucker!_ Corgan grinned, plunging the point of his blade diagonally into the man's shoulder, severing his jugular and rupturing his trachea in one smooth, lightning quick motion.

He kicked the body aside, sliding his knife back into his boot and ripping the man's bead free. He secured this to his ear and knelt down in place of the dead merc, picking up his short-bodied machine pistol and making like one of them.

Bracing himself, he fired off a couple of bursts and shouted into the bead.

'He's breaking…'

'What… I don't see him?'

'Cover me,' Corgan replied. The other man charged straight through, cursing and swearing as he almost fell down the ladder shaft. In his desperate haste he could do nothing as Corgan opened fire, bullets ripping through his torso and putting him on his back.

Corgan sprang forward, his feet crushing the man's wrist before he could raise his weapon. He delivered the coup de grace, then displaced, finding a sheltered spot some distance from the two corpses he'd just made and pausing to try and calculate how many were left. Two dead before the rooftop chase, another five put down since. Either Arines' estimate of their numbers was way out or they'd hooked up with another group during the chase. Either way, he wasn't about to breath easy just yet.

The bead was silent. Most short wave micro-vox were extremely sensitive to other wave signals in the immediate vicinity. Even if they'd switch frequencies he'd probably pick up some interference. There was nothing.

He moved for the ladder, heading down towards ground level in a high state of alert. The ground floor was wreathed in deep shadow. The ground was uneven, not yet smoothed away, the pipes and electrical cabling still exposed in narrow rockrete trenches.

Corgan moved towards the light, keeping low, the merc's weapon gripped tight and ready. He started at an odd sound, like the warbling of a bird, and halted, scanning the shadows for any hint of movement.

'Just a bird, dammit,' he hissed, realising that he was feeling edgy as he hadn't for years. Something about this place wasn't right. Something about that sound was alien and out of place, here. He was starting to wish he hadn't hared off on his own.

Suddenly there was a movement in the corner of his eye.

'Thunder!' he cried, sweeping his weapon to the right and waiting less than a second before lighting up. The muzzle-flash caused sprites to dance before his eyes, momentarily ruining his low-light vision.

More movement off to his left, just as indistinct. He fired again, starting to get angry at himself for being so jumpy. He was giving away his position with every salvo and to cap it all he had no idea if he was even hitting anything.

The darkness writhed around him, something impossibly tall and stick-like rising up before him in a wave of blackness. His weapon was batted aside and something punched him in his solar plexus, knocking the air right out of him and putting him in a prone position as whatever it was that had attacked him loomed over him in the darkness.

Light reflected off a metallic, club-like weapon. This was the last thing Corgan saw as it flashed down towards his head.

xxx

The pursuit was fruitless.

Arines had rallied up the Orrax and spread them forward through the neighbourhood. Most of the mercs had bugged out, leaving myriad surprises behind them for their pursuers to find. Others were backed into corners and either died fighting or were rounded up.

Either way, progress slowed to a crawl. Every second mark was a civilian, meaning they really had to check their targets before firing. Casualties mounted and still there was no sign of the Major.

Shopal and Darron were co-ordinated two groups off to the south and west, Lita had a search party out to the north. Arines was lumbered with the remnants of the Praetorians.

Once Hale was stabilised he'd been loaded up onto a Chimera and sent back to the depot. His successor, a Sergeant Valint, had retrieved his unit's orders from the wounded man and was talking about continuing the mission.

'What are you talking about, man?' Arines argued. 'Half your unit is dead or wounded including your CO. I'd translate that as a catastrophic failure, wouldn't you!'

Valint drew himself up, his reason warring with his pride all across his features.

'Captain, you have the rank to order us home, but hear me out first. Since my regiment came here we've lost three thousand men to the war. We've had to induct nuggets into the ranks twice before today and will likely have to do so again in a couple of months. We've had precious little success and morale is at an all time low. But then you turn up and our latest embarrassment is averted, you have given me and my men the hope for victory. To send us home now would break us. Do you understand?'

'You'll never hold that fuel depot.'

'Alone, probably not,' Valint replied. 'But once we're in we can call up reinforcements and with your help we might just succeed.'

Arines sighed. He'd known what was coming, of course. He'd been a soldier almost all his life, worked his way up from the ranks twice over, albeit reluctantly in either case. But he understood the value of morale. Without it no army was worthy of the name, no matter how shiny their buttons.

'How far to the depot?'

'No more than a mile!'

'Alright. I'll give you a chance. We'll see you to the depot and establish a covert perimeter, but on one condition…'

'Name it!'

'You throw your damn pocket book in the nearest gutter and let my boys show you how to fight this kind of war.'

Valint took the little fabric-bound book from his jacket pocket. Within it were the bare bones of the Praetorian Rules of War, including tactical treatises that formed the heart of their combat doctrines. The sergeant had seen how useless they were, at least in this theatre.

He took a deep breath before tossing it down a sewer grate.

'These Praetorians are ready to learn a new method of war, Captain.'

Arines nodded and went to get his men briefed. He'd known since Fered Roathi that he didn't want to be regimental XO. But when Wolfe died on Gunga IV, who else was there to take up the mantle? Grein was the only other company commander even close to being capable, and Corgan would never let an ex-Arbite take the post.

And now his worst nightmare was taking form. The CO was off the map and the XO had to step up and take the reins.

'Take me back to Cassendaro,' he muttered to himself, shaking his head in weary resignation.

'Captain,' Wheln approached him from the side, self-effacing as ever, his mechanical voice breaking Arines reverie. 'The Argo teams leaders have all reported in. No contact. Do you want them to keep looking?' There was a desperate gleam of hope in the boy's eyes. He worshipped Corgan. But this was a military outfit and whatever trouble Corgan had cooked up for himself he'd just have to manage on his own. Benjamen Arines had a regiment to run.

'Call them off. I've got a job for them. Escabar will just have to find his own way home. Emperor save him!'

xxx

Lita felt oddly out of place without her heavy carapace armour. It felt somehow wrong to be wearing plain clothes over a lightweight armaweave flak jacket. She didn't really understand why. She'd worn the same outfit countless times during the Rogue ops they'd undertaken between Gunga IV and here. Somehow this was different.

'What's the word?' she asked, her vox-man shook his head.

'XO wants us to call off the hunt. He's given us a muster point and he wants us there at 0800.'

'Frak that! We're not hanging Escabar out to dry… get Pars over here.'

The weasel-faced smirk ambled over, his rifle couched lazily in his arms.

'You wanted to see me, boss?'

'How's your cash-flow, Pars?'

'Ticking over.'

'How'd you fancy a little windfall?'

'Depends on how dirty the job is.'

'I need you to go off mission….'

'Ooh, pricey!' Pars grinned.

'You'll be protecting your investment. Corgan makes us all a lot of money and I want you to track him down. Name your price!'

'Ten thousand.'

'Five!'

'Come on, I'm putting my neck on the line, that's worth at least eight!'

'Hah! Eight? You overestimate your own worth, my friend. Seven!'

'I don't even get out of bed for less than seven and a half…'

'Done!' Lita removed her glove and spat in her palm. 'You remember where the dead-drop is? I'll check it every other day. Leave me a note when you're ready to come back in and I'll square it with the Blacktop!'

Pars spat in his own hand and they shook to settle the deal.

'I'll be in touch.'

xxx

Sergeant Valint led the remnants of his company straight down the Via Colliarus, using parked up vehicles, rubbish receptacles and low walls for cover. He'd arranged the twenty-four survivors into fire teams of six, overlapping in threes. With the Orrax moving through the adjacent buildings and securing the flanks, they were making good time.

Sporadic fire rippled towards them, but nowhere near as concentrated or organised as it should be. They were being harassed, but not enough to dent their newfound determination.

When the depot came in sight it was less than a hundred metres distant. That was when the fire came down with a vengeance.

The enemy had dug in deeper than a Ridniam Blood-tick with hard-points housing heavy calibre weapons. Rockrete barricades had been erected around the perimeter with makeshift roofing made out of corrugated iron.

'Get the mortars set up!' Valint barked, though he didn't see them making much of a dent on the enemy positions. 'Grenade launchers, lay down some smoke… assault teams to me!'

The company's new organisation was based loosely on the Orrax set up. Half the teams were equipped to engage the enemy at medium range with mortars and grenades launchers. The others were tooled up to get up close and personal. Each team had a flamer operator and everyone was armed with frag grenades. They were the bloody infantry that would advance under covering fire from the other four squads before holding to allow the ranged squads to displace behind them. Until now they hadn't had a chance to put it into practise, but this was their opportunity.

'Alright. There's plenty of cover for two teams to move down the far left. If we skirt right the other two teams can move up through that row of gardens. Use the smoke and hold your fire until you hear my whistle. Let the rest of the boys take all the flak, got it!'

These men had been handpicked for this. They were the staunchest, most battle-hardened men he had to call upon. These were not nuggets he was talking to, but veterans, hard-nosed, hard-faced, heavy-handed bastards who wouldn't spit on you if you were burning.

They'd known for months now how useless the Praetorian methodology was in this theatre. Now they were finally getting to employ tactics that had a chance of being effective. It was the herald of a new lease of life for a stagnant regiment.

'Alright, boys, let's get this done. I'll see you on the other side!'

xxx

Arines watched the Praetorian sergeant from a distance. He'd kept his men in a standoff position, watching the flanks, keeping the fledgling unit safe as they advanced. Now it was time for their trial by fire.

Many of them had seen combat before, but none of them had been allowed to fight it properly until today. He'd help Valint organise the men he had left, tutored him vaguely on how to deploy them and then let slip the budding war-dog.

The sergeant waited until the curtain of smoke was thick and impenetrable before moving right with two fire teams. The depot guns fell silent, the mercs manning them knew it was futile to keep shooting. They knew it was better to conserve ammo. They'd spend the next few moments preparing a response to the inevitable assault, stripping out overheating barrels and making sure their weapons were fully charged. They'd probably even move up a few counter-assault squads to hamper the Praetorians. But whatever they did, they'd be ready.

Unconsciously, he crossed his fingers behind his back.

xxx

Valint vaulted a low garden wall and hunkered down behind it as the rest of his two squads charged in behind him, taking up defensive positions and preparing to leap into the next garden.

The smoke screen was still billowing thickly across the enemy positions. The guns were still silent. The scene was like something out of a dream or nightmare. Eerie silence had settled over the street like a death shroud.

'Move up!' he hissed. Garrath led his team over into the next garden while Valint and the other squad covered them. As Garath settled in behind the next barricade Valint brought up the rear, rolling over and moving up.

Suddenly and silently, coalescing out of the smoke like marsh wraiths, humanoid figures loomed out of the ether.

'Open fire!' Valint bellowed, not even hesitating, confident that these were hostiles.

Two of the silhouettes went down, others dove for cover. The return fire sent stone chips flying but the Praetorians were ensconced in their hard cover.

'GO! GO! GO!' Valint bellowed, lifting his whistle to his lips and giving three loud blasts. The eerie silence was broken. The usual snap-crack of discharging lasguns was strangely muted by the smoke and the bellowing war cries of the Praetorians sounded lost and forlorn.

Valint felt his heart shudder in his chest, a moment's uncertainty entering his thoughts.

Then he was up and over the wall, hot on the heels of his men, lasrifle clenched at hip height.

The wall of smoke dissipated behind him as he came out the other side and leapt a rockrete barricade, gunning down an unfortunate merc before charging deeper into the depot. His men had taken up cover positions behind large-bore metal pipe-work and were cracking off rounds into the interior. Behind them a tangle of bodies lay strewn across the barricades.

The chatter of a heavy calibre automatic rang loud in his ears, cutting two of his men down before his own eyes.

'Get a grenade in that nest!' He bellowed, indicated the source of the gunfire.' Six seconds later the weapon was silenced, the gunner hurled from his makeshift pillbox by the concentrated frag detonation. It had claimed another life by that time.

'Keep pushing!' Valint cried, lifting his whistle once more to call in the rear-guard.

As the platoon pushed in under the depot's canopy they were met with a concentrated fusillade of solid rounds. Three more men were blasted from their feet and had to be dragged into cover.

'No grenades!' The depot was a fuel storage facility. Small arms fire shouldn't do too much damage but a little composition B could go a long way in such confined spaces. Valint was extremely conscious of the fact that they could all be blown sky high if they were even a little careless.

'Sir, I think you should see this,' said Garath, indicating a compact device strapped to one of the canopy supports with metallic bands. Blinking red lights and multicoloured wires rang into and out of a square wad of plastic explosives.

'I reckon this whole facility is rigged to blow, sir…'

Valint swore!


	6. Sometimes Not So Sure

**_Sorry for the delay in updating, should have another chapter ready pretty soon. Family crisis and all that... anyway, enjoy!_**

* * *

'There's a message coming in from the Praetorian expedition you sent out this morning, sir.'

Lord General Chaffed lay flopped in his command throne like a beached whale. He was little more than a cripple with mechadendrite probes inserted into cranial plugs or protruding from his spinal column. Fluid drips lined the back of his throne, shining wetly in greens and blues, feeding nutrients and anti-necrosis compounds into his ancient, debilitated frame. He was surrounded by data-slates on multi-jointed metal arms, displaying the day's logistics for his review.

He could have been asleep for his physical activity.

'Expedition, what expedition?' he burst into macabre movement, like a marionette suspended on invisible wires, jerky and inhuman.

'The mission to secure the fuel depot, sir.'

'Are they still out there?' he gasped, fixing the orderly with a milky eye. 'I thought they'd been recalled.'

'No, sir. Your orders were for them to continue against all odds.'

Chaffed settled back a little, suddenly exhausted.

'Very well, put it on the speaker.'

The tactical orderly punched a few buttons on his master vox. The command centre's speakers fizzled to life.

'Command this is Sergeant Valint, acting commander of the 9th Corps, 3rd Platoon. We have secured the perimeter of the target location and are awaiting engineers to disarm explosive devices located on the canopy supports. We've still to secure the plant and admin block but the enemy have been contained for the moment.'

'Put me on, Lieutenant,' Chaffed gesticulated, indicating that a link be established for him to speak through.

'Sergeant this is the Lord General. Engineers are en route, you say?'

'Yes sir, the Orrax 567th has been kind enough to send a detachment from their forward command post.'

'The 567th, eh? Most irregular, but if it gets the job done… Well, carry on sergeant, don't let us keep you. There is a war to be won, you know?'

'Sir, we'll have the depot secured within the hour. I would like to formally request reinforcements in case of a counter attack. Casualties have been heavy.'

'I'll pass your request down to your battalion HQ, sergeant. The decision lies with them.'

The orderly cut the connection.

'Plucky little chap, eh? How do you suppose he did it?'

For all his physical infirmities, the Lord General was still acrobatic in his mind, even if his methods were long outdated. He'd known it was a fools mission when he signed the order. Major Breton stepped forward and indicated an as yet unread data-slate awaiting the Lord General's attention.

'These are the reports we have received regarding the progress made by the Praetorians, my lord. It appears they may have had help.

'Unauthorised help, by the looks of things. You suspect the 567th?'

'I do. It is not necessarily a bad thing, my lord, as you said, the job is getting done…'

'Disobedience is always a bad thing, Major. Do these people have a disciplinarian?'

'A Commissar Vaughn, sir.'

'Invite him to dinner, would you? I would like to speak with him about the state of his regiment.'

Breton backed away, an expression of fear on his features. He hadn't meant to drop the Orrax into the frying pan, but the Lord General was extremely stiff on matters of discipline whilst being simultaneously completely severed from the concept of morale. It didn't matter to him that in this instance contravention of orders had won the demoralised Praetorians an important victory. All that mattered was that Chaffed had not been obeyed. Such blinkered leadership…

xxx

He woke to pitch darkness and silence. He was bound cross-wise to a wall, his arms secured out to the side and his legs wound in thick ropes. There was a ringing in his ears and as he shook his head to get rid of it an ocean of pain filled his skull. On top of this his mouth tasted like a sewer and his sinuses were clogged with grit and dust.

'Where the hell am I?' Corgan croaked, parched and dehydrated.

'Please, do not struggle,' came a thickly accented reply, a deep-chested voice that lisped ever so slightly as though the speaker struggled to say the low gothic words. 'We do not wish you harm.'

'So that's why you clocked me over the head is it?' Corgan drawled. 'Well aren't you the bloody peacemaker! If we had more people like you in the galaxy I'm sure it'd be a much better place.'

The speaker turned aside and muttered something. In the pure inky blackness it was impossible to tell how many people occupied the room with him. From the timbre of their voices Corgan guessed it wasn't many and that the room was close and cramped.

'Ah, I see. My envoy informs me that this is kind of human wit; sarcasm. He also informs me that it is considered to be the lowest form. Perhaps I misjudged your value to us.'

'Well what do you expect!' Corgan replied. 'Should I thank you for cracking my skull? If I'm a low wit then you must just be plain stupid!'

'Such venom,' the speaker replied, curiously. 'I have no doubt of your spirit, but you have still to prove your intelligence to me. I will return.'

Footsteps shuffled out of the room. Iron screamed as a door was pushed closed. Metal clanked a s a key was turned.

Corgan briefly considered shouting some abuse after him, but he knew it was futile. A sneaking suspicion had been planted in his mind and it unnerved him. A memory of the fight, the way his assailant had moved, was reminiscent of something he had seen before. When the speaker had referred to sarcasm as being a human trait, it had all clicked into place. He knew who he was dealing with, now. What he didn't know was how he was going to get out of the situation he was in.

xxx

The wind felt good in Corporal Heffron's face as the city-scape of Trachiad City rushed by on either side. The powerful bikes mechanical grunt sent reassuring tremors through his body. The thick, metal-studded tyres tore a ragged groove in the asphalt and the large-bore exhausts spewed thick, acrid fumes in his wake.

Behind him three more bikers churned up the road and on each perched a single passenger heavily laden with bomb disposal equipment. Alreich was one of these. The surly convict had worked in demolitions in a former life. Now he was part of an ad-hoc bomb disposal unit formed to make the fuel depot safe.

There was no traffic in this part of town. The firefight that had raged through the neighbourhood had put paid to that. They weaved their way between burnt out wrecks and rubble, the occasional shell-hole left over from the early days of the war when artillery had still been the Imperium's mainstay.

The depot materialised out of a column of smoke. Some of the fuel lines had been damaged and the fires were just barely being kept under control by the local volunteer fire brigade. The flash and crack of lasguns still raged around the two-storey admin block at the opposite end of the compound.

Arines welcomed them in through a heavily armed cordon. There hadn't been a counter attack yet but the Captain was leaving nothing to chance. Heffron's pillion passenger hopped down and went about detaching the cycle's saddlebags that held all his equipment.

'Over there, boys.' Arines indicated the nearest canopy support strut as Heffron parked up. 'They've found three devices so far. We can't move too many men in unless we want to get the bloody canopy on our heads.'

Geiger, the bomb-disposal team leader, nodded his affirmation. 'We'll see to it, Captain. You might want to get your men to cover.'

'No fear, corporal. We can't move out without the risk of losing the place. We'll run that race alongside you.'

'Okay,' Geiger shrugged. 'It's your funeral!'

Arines grinned and turned to address Heffron.

'You didn't hang around did you?'

'No, sir. Would've been nice to be able to wait for the weapons systems they're planning to fit but you needed us more.'

'How's that going?'

'They kept back a couple of the hogs in order to put fifty-cal stubbers into the sidecars. We took the rest. Biggs wants each of these to have a couple of linked autoguns fitted to each, but it'll keep.'

'What about the new guys, how they panning out?'

'As well as you might expect, I suppose. They'll get into the spirit of things eventually. It's got to be better than the penitentiary, right?'

Arines laughed. Some of his irascible humour was genuine, the rest was put on to keep morale up in Corgan's absence.

'Sometimes, Heff, I'm not so sure!'

xxx

The visitors came and went. Sometimes they spoke to each other in melodious, alien syllables, other times they asked him nonsensical questions. Occasionally there was a chirruping like the birdman that had attacked him. He answered their questions with subtle insults and sarcasm, unwilling to lay his cards on the table.

They offered him food and water, but they wouldn't unbind him and he refused to be fed. Besides his pride, he was wary of drugs that would make him more open to suggestion. He supposed they could easily inject him with them, but they were unwilling to turn on the lights until they got what they wanted out of him and that made such tactics impossible.

Corgan was still forming his strategy. He was vulnerable, but that didn't mean he couldn't take the initiative. Obviously they thought he was valuable to them and his response to their questioning gave them only enough to keep that suspicion alive. He had no doubt that should they decide they were wrong his remaining lifespan would be measured in minutes.

He waited for an edge of impatience to manifest itself in his interrogator's tone before executing his strategy.

'You're a long way from home!' he said.

'Oh? And how would you know where home is?'

'Why don't we start with you turning the lights on.'

'I think not, yet.'

'Look, buddy, we can keep playing these games for as long as you like. I've got all the time in the world and to be quite honest, I'm enjoying the rest.' That wasn't strictly true. His arms and legs were cramping up and it was hard to get a full lungful of air in his position. 'I just get the feeling that you're a little nervous and I don't blame you. It won't be long before the Inquisition gets wind of your presence and sends the Deathwatch in.'

'Deathwatch?'

'Oh, come on, you can't be that ignorant. Even the lowliest officers of the Imperial Guard have heard of the Deathwatch.'

There was a long, drawn out pause. His interrogator was most definitely on the back-foot now. His defences were crumbling around him. The darkness had not been disguise enough. It was time for phase two of Corgan's strategy.

xxx

The last of the surviving mercenaries that had been holed up in the admin block were led into the back of a white-armoured Chimera. Their wounded were being tended to in a field triage station in the first floor along with the wounded Praetorians and a couple of Orrax men.

Valint's twelve remaining able-bodied men had taken up positions around the perimeter, setting up mortars and excavating the hard points. The Orrax Captain was keeping his distance still, but more of his men were evident moving into the surrounding neighbourhood. He was arguing intensely with a large, muscular woman while a squad of his men finished up removing the explosive devices the mercs had been unable or unwilling to detonate.

The fact that they hadn't blown the place sky high spoke of a need to keep hold of the fuel reserves located beneath his feet in massive underground reservoirs. There was going to be a counter attack, the only question was when.

Valint sat on a high kerb, leaning back against the body of a fuel pump while he checked his ammo reserves. They'd claimed a fair few weapons from the mercs, mostly reliable but cheap weapons mass-produced in the factories of Korsch, AR-12's and a few 14's. Sidearms ranged from semi-automatic P12's to the slightly more expensive and sector-renowned Korsch 50, the staple weapon of the hive gangs. Stockpiles of grenades had also been seized, along with a couple of fifty-cal machine-stubbers that still worked. It wasn't the same kind of kit they'd been finding this morning, but it was all solid stuff.

Garrath stepped into his light, casting a long shadow across the forecourt.

'Sarge, we've got reinforcements moving in. It's Captain Woltz.'

'Aw, krud!' Valint swore, tipping his head back against the pump. 'That's all we need…'

Woltz's company drove up in a convoy of seven-ton trucks, led by the Captain's own command Salamander. The company deployed in regimental fashion, their uniforms well turned out and their buttons gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Woltz himself sauntered over towards Valint with his riding crop under his arm. He wore the black jodhpurs of a cavalryman and fixed a monacle into his left eye socket as he carried himself towards the battle-worn soldiers of Hale's platoon.

'What's all this, sergeant?' he asked in clipped tones. 'Sitting down on the job? You will report to the quartermaster for punishment detail the minute you return to barracks. Am I understood?'

Valint got slowly to his feet, wiping at an imaginary blemish on the body of his lasgun with his sleeve. Woltz's face went purple with rage. To him, a soldier's uniform was all the identity he had. Such blatant sacrilege was a cardinal sin. Valint knew exactly what his reaction would be. He raised his riding crop in preparation to deliver a stinging blow across the sergeant's face.

Valint's reaction was deliberate and instinctive at the same time. He'd come to a point in his military career where he was ready to make a stand against the injustices of the Praetorian regimen.

He raised his lasrifle. The muzzle hovered less than an inch from the tip of Woltz's aristocratic nose.

It was a standoff. A deadly hush fell across the forecourt. The Praetorians of Woltz's command stood immobile, their jaws hanging slack and their eyes wide. The men of Valint's command watched with bitterness. Many of the latter sneered with malevolence, willing Valint to pull the trigger. The Orrax stood around grinning like fools. Even Captain Arines had an expression of great amusement on his bearded features.

'Lower your weapon, sergeant, and surrender yourself into my custody,' said Woltz, in a quiet, even and much more respectful tone. 'I will not only ensure that you are given a fair courts martial, but I will see that the stresses of this day are taken fully into account. You might even come out of this with your skin in tact.'

'Begging your pardon, sir, but frak you!'

'Do not take it by my tone that this is a request, sergeant, I'm ordering you to lower your weapon…'

'I took this depot, sir. Some of my men died taking it, others took bullets in their bellies and might not see another dawn. This victory is ours and no poxy stiff-rod like you is gonna take that away from them.'

'Sergeant, this is your last warning…'

'What's my name?'

'What?'

'What's my frakking name, Captain?'

'I…'

'Tell me you know my name. Tell me you bothered to check…'

'…'

'If I could just interrupt,' the bearded Captain had approached quietly. 'But we _have_ had reports of enemy troops on the move in this direction. Perhaps we should look to the defences?'

'Who the hell are you?' Woltz raged, his temper boiling over and overriding his reason. He turned away from Valint, bearing down on Arines despite the fact that the man was bigger and heavier than he was. The riding crop came up again. 'I'll not tolerate such insolence from the likes of you…'

Valint's rifle-butt connected solidly with the back of the Praetorian officer's head and he folded to the ground. The sergeant then rounded on the fresh-faced men of Woltz's company. Even the junior officers were frozen into inactivity.

'Anyone else want to argue the toss? No!? Then fall in, you bunch of soft-bellied grunts. Man the defences, keep your heads down and your weapons loaded and above all, swallow your bloody pride and listen to the men who were here before you. They know what they're doing!'

The Praetorian mind-set was primed to obey the voice of authority. Valint had that now. A lowly first sergeant had asserted his authority over commissioned officers, his own peers and the men that reported to them. And all that after clubbing their senior officer over the head.

Valint shook his head over the absurdity of it all.

xxx

'Where the hell did they get artillery?' Valint bellowed, hunkering down behind the blasted remains of a rockrete barricade.

Arines shrugged. They hadn't seen any pieces yet but the amount of firepower the mercs were bringing to bear spoke of some kind of artillery battery, at least two or three of the buggers. Rocket batteries, he was guessing. What he didn't know was how they were managing to bring them down so accurately. Most rocket batteries he'd seen were even less accurate than basilisks firing at their maximum range, but these were coming down on the perimeter of the depot and with very little deviation.

It was giving him a headache.

'Paddy!' he bellowed. 'Any word from Lita yet?'

The vox-man shook his head from his own hiding place.

'Infantry moving in!' someone cried, barely audible over the hubbub of warhead detonations.

'Give 'em hell!' Valint roared. Arines had noticed a certain gung ho fearlessness about his fighting since he'd given old Woltz a clobbering. He liked it. It was just what these Praetorians needed. He was even starting to think the man's superiors would have a hard time trying to mete out military justice against him… at least for as long as the Commissariat was kept well clear. He hoped so. It would be a shame to see him put down like an animal.

Arines peeked over the barricade, laying down a random burst of solid slugs from his scavenged weapon. Through the drifting smoke and flickering flames he could barely make out the enemy moving forward in long, almost impossible strides.

'What the hell? he swore. Their enemies were tall and long limbed, scantily dressed in skins and furs and with a multitude of spines springing from the backs of long, oblate skulls. They certainly were not human. They raised long rifles to lay down covering fire, the muzzles of which boasted spikes and blades that would make them effective close combat weapons.

'I've heard of these… things…' Valint cried, not hesitating to lay another low with a pin-point lasrifle blast.

'Kroot!' Arines blurted. 'The flotsam scum of the universe. Mercenaries to the core. I've fought them before. Don't let the bastards get any closer and if we're overrun just remember one thing… best not to leave anyone behind, eh!? These bastards have a nasty habit of eating their vanquished foes!'

Valint's finger relaxed on the trigger as he took this in. Then his fury returned with a vengeance.

Arines laughed as he stood and fired from the hip, laying down a sheet of fire from the hip. It was a wild, primal sound that rang out across the urban battlefield just as the howling of a wolf carries across the empty steppe. The Orrax responded in kind, yelling obscenities and curses in a hundred cants from every obscure corner of the sector.

The Praetorians fought with numb efficiency, slightly perturbed by the wildness of their erstwhile compatriots, but determined nonetheless.

A wave of xenos mercenaries filled the streets around them, their own warbling war-cries emitted from jagged beaks.


	7. We Meet Again

Trooper Veiss barrelled into the room with Pellins hot on his heels. The prisoners were all shouting and gesticulating as best they could in their trussed up state. Attention seemed fixed on the two men that had been fastened to a big iron radiator. With their hands secured tight, there were using whatever else they could to attack one another.

Veiss fell flat on his face as a nearby prisoner snagged his ankle. Pellins struck the man over the head and helped his partner back up, but it was too late. One of the fighters had managed to get his ankles crossed behind the head of the other, gripping his head between steely thighs. The other man bit down hard on a chunk of flesh, staining his assailant's fatigues dark with his own blood.

With a sickening crunch the biter's neck snapped as the other man twisted hard, almost dislocating his own arms to bring enough force to bear. Veiss' truncheon was just a second too late. The killer slumped into unconsciousness.

'What the frak was this about,' Pellins bellowed, addressing the nearer prisoners. All he received was a babble of verbal abuse.

'Go get the Commissar,' Veiss growled.

xxx

Vaughn looked down at the corpse and sighed heavily.

'What happened here?'

Biggs shook his head in exasperation.

'It would appear that our man took exception to his neighbour. We won't know any more until he regain's consciousness.'

'Too late for this fellow,' Vaughn muttered.

The corpse was laid out on his back, still chained to the radiator with his neck bent at an impossible angle. His features were slack and a little forlorn.

'Have any of the others talked?'

'Not yet. We've started keeping them well separated. All we know is that the killer was captured during the street-fight this morning, while this fellow just came in from the scrap at the depot.'

'I see. Initially I would have put this down to infighting or some kind of vendetta, but perhaps there are more… mercenary reasons. Do we have any evidence to suggest that they were from different crews?'

Biggs scratched his head in thought.

'Only the fact that most of the kit we took from the street-fight this morning was top-of-the-line, expensive, custom gear. The depot gang were equipped with cheaper equipment, mass-produced arms, the kind of thing you can pick up in bulk from any local arms-trader. It's nothing concrete, I guess, but maybe there's something in it.'

'It's just a hunch,' Vaughn mused, 'but I think there may be more than two sides to this conflict. In the meantime I've requested the use of some cells up at the penitentiary, somewhere with slightly better security but it may take some time to come about. Until then I want you to keep the two groups exposed to each other but well out of reach. Put someone with a brain in with them to keep an ear open in case they let slip any useful information. Where have their possessions been stored?'

'They came in with just the clothes on their backs, sir. There wasn't time or inclination to gather evidence. Apparently it's been pretty hairy out there.'

'Very well. In that case I'll be handling prisoner transportation myself from here on. I'll get Grein to pick out a few good men. I need to gather evidence and I can't do that if they come to me empty handed.'

'Uh, actually, Commissar, there might be other leads we can follow up on…'

'Go on, lieutenant.'

Biggs knelt down next to the corpse, pulling aside the dead man's collar to reveal a tattoo of a skull and crossed hatchets.

'A lot of merc outfits have these, part of the initiation, I suppose. A show of loyalty, although it's not necessarily the same kind of loyalty you and I might imagine. If any of these boys are local, we might be able to cross-reference them on the imperial archives.'

'Did the men from this morning have any tattoos like this?'

'I'll get a team to start cataloguing them. If you can get me access to those records I have a man that can process them.'

'I'll make arrangements. On a side-note, I'll be dining at the Lord General's manse this evening. Try and drum up a car to take me there, would you?'

xxx

Unless you were unhinged, going toe to toe with the kroot was not an experience to relish. They were bird-quick, hollow bones making for a light physique. At the same time they were whip-cord strong, dextrous and imposingly tall. The long-barrelled, spike-muzzled rifles they sported boosted their already superior reach. Besides this they fought with an instinctive savagery. Battle was written into their genome.

Benjamen Arines had fought them twice before during his dubious career. The first occasion had been the prosecution of a minor baron gone rogue, back on his homeworld of Cassendora when he was just a fledgling PDF recruit. The Baron had bought in some hired muscle to try and gain leverage over his neighbours. The use of xenos mercenaries had not gone unpunished by the hard-line Imperialist government.

The second engagement had been during the abortive Damocles Crusade. At the age of twenty-five Arines had secured a transfer to a line unit, the Cassendori Longrifles. The regiment had been sent into the Gulf with the rest of the crusade army and had been royally punished by Farsight's Hunter Cadres.

The presence of Kroot on Cardinal Voldt was not necessarily proof that the Tau were here, but the accuracy of those rocket batteries was starting to ring bells in Arine's brain. He'd seen seeker missiles in action, but he wondered what business they could possibly have that would bring them so far beyond the Damocles septs. It made him nervous. The Tau had already caused his downfall once. He was damned if he was going to let that happen again.

He took a moment to duck down and survey how things were going long this stretch of the perimeter. Valint was crouched nearby, pumping controlled bursts of las out into no man's land.

'How are your men faring, sergeant?' he cried. Valint shook his head in exhaustion.

'Learning fast and holding strong. They've broken in a couple of times over to the west but we managed seen them off both times.'

'Good to hear. Don't let up, these bastards generally have a limit, we just need to force them to it.'

'Understood. I won't let them falter.'

'I believe it, Valint. No one could doubt it! But perhaps your spirit would be put to greater use over to the west. If the lines are weaker there, you could make a palpable difference.'

'Understood, Captain. They're coming again.'

They went back to work, emerging from cover to let rip with bursts of repelling fire. They could make out humans in and amongst the xenos now, where before the mercs had apparently hung back. It was a sign of desperation. The kroot were taking losses. They must be close to breaking point.

xxx

His captors were putting sixty watts through the bulb now, other than that they were getting nowhere. Corgan resolutely refused to say any more until they untied him.

'This is not a fair trade. We have the upper hand.' Said the hooded form of his interrogator.

'It's been quite a while since life was fair, mate, at least in my experience. You make your own breaks in this galaxy and if I'm not gravely mistaken, you've bedded down in hostile territory. This is my turf and that makes you all my bitches. Untie me and we'll see if we can come to a reasonable agreement.'

The interrogator's placid exterior was slipping. Time was running away from him, but he had his pride. He turned on his heel and led his birdman bodyguard out of the room. The door closed with a solid thunk. Corgan took a deep, calming breath. Patience was a virtue. His hand was still proving strong, despite the fact that he felt like he was bluffing. Time would tell.

xxx

The battle for the depot raged off to the west of Lita's position as she hunkered down in a ruinous hab with her squad.

Much of Cerberus Company was heavily engaged in defending the depot. Arines' boys had been rallying on his position since the running battle ensued this morning. Now that they had a static line of defence, it had fallen to the reserves of Argo Company to watch the flanks and force an advantage. If Corgan had been around, he would have found a way to achieve it but without him, Lita was stumped.

Darron's platoon was spread through a rambling hab complex to the west of the depot while Frocar had been set to covering the eastern approaches. Toal's platoon had been kept back at the regimental reserve while Alecs was supposedly moving up to reinforce the depot with his. There hadn't been any sign of him yet.

Lita was edging ahead of Frocar's line of defence, trying to find a way through the market district. There were still rogue shooters in the area, lone snipers moving around, slippery as smoke. They made it dangerous to move openly, but Lita had taken her three sections forwards, infiltrating with painfully slow progress through the sprawling mercantile district, hoping they could come around behind the enemy force.

Fenriss led the way, with Rhys covering his back. Off to her left Varrin and Jopal investigated a coal shed, ensuring there were no surprises in store. Quaig stuck close to her as she displaced, wary as feral cat, even with the bulky vox set strapped to his back.

They were still under strength after their losses on Gunga IV. Peddis and Geddies had both bought their tickets to eternity fighting the degenerate mutants of a Genestealer cult on the frontier world. Corgan hadn't seen the need to back fill the unit just yet. Such changes would upset the delicate balance they'd arrived at during the firestorms of the last two years. They worked well as they were, a couple of fresh nuggets would just get underfoot.

Lita crouched behind a low wall and held up a fist. Varrin and Jopal responded immediately, ducking into hard cover and scanning the surrounding buildings. Rhys hissed to get Fenriss' attention. It took them a moment or two longer to settle in.

'Check the flanks,' she hissed. Quaig unhooked the vox horn, adjusting his ear-piece slightly as he sent a two-pip burst. Several moments later he nodded the affirmative, indicating positive contact from Findrei and Loeval's vox men.

She signalled the advance once more. They bounded up between a wall and a row of abandoned food-carts, rusting in the open air of a small market square. The air was thick with blowflies and the smell of rancid meat. Styrene receptacles and filthy, sodden napkins littered the ground, gathering in sheltered spots with all the detritus of a once-bustling city turning to wrack and ruin. The wind whistled across the square, slamming loose shutters against their casements and disturbing the rubbish.

They moved with silent efficiency, weapons cinched tight at ready positions as they scanned rooftops and balconies.

A sound like a lightning strike slowed down, a sonic whine that rose beyond their aural range before being released with an almost deafening whip-crack, punched Rhys from his feet. Something as hot and bright as a miniature sun took him high in the shoulder and sent him sprawling in a heap, out in the open.

He lay on his back in stunned silence as Fenriss checked his own advance and dived back into cover. Then he started to scream.

Quaig was on the vox the instant his buttocks hit the asphalt.

'Sniper of the rooftops!' he blurted. 'Extreme caution advised.'

'Looks like some heavy calibre stuff,' Lita growled, tears standing out in her eyes as she struggled against the urge to run out and drag her man into cover. Of course that was exactly what the sniper wanted. She grabbed the vox horn.

'One-two-two, come in!'

'This is Loe, go ahead!'

'The shot came from a one of the rooftops to the north east of the market square, right up the street from you. He's using Rhys to try and draw us out, move now and you might be able to get the drop on him.'

'Can you be more specific on the location?'

'Just move, now! If I'm still in one piece in thirty seconds you'll hear from Quaig. Follow his directions.'

'Acknowledged.' Loeval had led a penitent platoon on Pelloris Ridge and survived the blood bath of Gunga IV. He knew what he was about.

'Anyone get a fix?' She called out, getting a round of desultory negatives for her trouble. Lita analysed their disposition. In diving for cover the squad had spread out thin. Fenriss, the point man, was well covered. If he moved it would have to be into the open, in which case he was dead. Varrin and Jopal, on the other hand, were crouching in an open sewer at the foot of the perimeter wall. The channel ran the length of the wall but the lip had crumbled away in a few places so was only of limited use.

'Help me out…' came Rhys' weakening entreaty. 'I'm hurt bad here, guys.' The shoulder pad of his carapace armour was smashed and slick with blood. He reached up to investigate the wound, his gauntlets coming away red. His piteous cries rose again, cries for his mother, cries for a medic, begging for his life in an unfeeling universe.

Lita's jaw locked, her gauntleted fists tightening around the grip of her hellgun.

'I'm going to get Rhys to cover,' she said, through gritted teeth. 'Spot that bastard and get his position to Loeval.'

'Sarge, it's suicide…' Quaig protested, but Lita Kierst was already diving out of cover, her boots pounding on the asphalt. Quaig peered out in disbelief, but he was still soldier enough to watch for the tell-tale flare of a sniper rifle.

A second, maybe two, then the sniper's weapon snapped again. Shards of superheated stone exploded from the ground between Lita's feet. She jinked left, a second shot seared its way past, so close it blistered the paint on her right shoulder guard.

Varrin and Jopal were returning fire now, tracking the coruscating projectiles back to their source. The range was impossible, but they put up a good show as Quaig opened a channel to Loeval's squad.

Fenriss scrambled onto his haunches and slung his rifle over one shoulder. As Lita reached the prone form of his squad mate he darted out to meet her. They took an arm each to drag him behind the nearest obstacle. Just as they were nearing safety, the sniper found a mark.

Lita was spun off her feet as a bolt of lightning tore into her left foot. For a moment, just like Rhys, she lay prone, wondering what had happened, then the pain, like nothing she'd ever experienced, roared throughout her body.

She was vaguely aware of someone dragging her into cover, but for an eternity all she could do was marvel in a strangely disconnected way at the agony rippling through her. Then she passed out.

xxx

Loeval and his fire team stormed the ransacked and looted shell of a general store with brutal efficiency. The ground floor was deserted but they shot it up anyway, yelling and hollering at the top of their lungs, gung-ho in the extreme. They found a stairwell in the back and charged up it two abreast. Loeval and Estha leading the way with rifles cushioned expertly at their shoulders. The wall-tiles on the first landing exploded, hellgun las ripping through flimsy partition walls.

The first floor was similarly deserted and the team headed up onto the roof. A maze of ventilation hoods and solar vanes surrounded them. Taller buildings loomed on three sides. There was no sign of the sniper.

'Split up,' Loeval hissed. 'Quarter the roof, locate any alternative escape routes.' Estha and Gussto went left while Billis and Tel took the right. He waved Vreyis and Coalin forward and they disappeared into the reflective sheeting that powered the building's electrics.

Loeval grabbed the vox horn from Listra.

'121, this is Loe, are you sure we're in the right place?'

'That's the place alright,' Quaig replied.

'Zero contact, here. Tango must have bugged out when he heard us coming. Get your wounded clear before he finds a new hole to hide up in. We'll track him down.'

The air was split by the whip-snap report of the sniper, Tel came flying into view from behind a lean-to shelter, a cascade of blood and meat following him.

'CONTACT!' Loeval screamed, dropping the horn and bringing his rifle up to bear. Billis tore around the corner, running flat out, eyes wide with terror. Not one to tolerate such cowardice, Loeval slammed his rifle butt into the man's midriff.

'Where do you think you're going, trooper? No one gets out of here without a ticket to the eternal!' he cried. 'Form on me, let's smoke this bastard out!'

Loeval wasn't big on subtlety. He was a brash and heavy handed hard-hitter. Argo Company was no place for wimps and weeds. If Billis survived this fight he'd probably find himself busted down to one of the other companies for falling out of the line of fire. There was no place for fear or hesitation in this unit. The sergeant led Billis and Listra in a blistering charge around the lean-to, weapons spitting death.

What they saw was nothing like what they were expecting.

The sniper wasn't a sniper at all, at least not in the conventional sense. It floated five feet from the surface of the roof, a saucer-like construct with a long, rectangular weapon slung underneath it along with what looked like stabiliser fins. The weapon cracked again, its meteoric projectile slicing the air between the guardsmen, arcs of static charge flickering around the body of the gun. At this range it would have punched straight through them, armour or no armour. It was just as well that it had missed.

Loeval put a full-auto burst through the space that it had occupied less than a second before he pulled the trigger. The drone jinked aside, bringing it straight into the river of las from Listra's hellgun. The lasbolts penetrated, causing something inside it to short out. It dropped to the ground with a most unsatisfactory clunk and sat there, sizzling, as the guardsmen gathered around.

'What the hell is it, sarge?' asked Billis.

'Since when did I care as long as its dead,' Loeval growled, prodding it with his boot nevertheless. The rest of the squad had mustered up, having completed their sweep of the rooftop.

'Alright people, let's get back in the streets, shall we?'

Loeval's head disappeared in a blood-red mist. Shards of his skull sliced into Listra's unprotected face. Billis dropped onto his arse, screaming, minus a leg.

The men of Loeval's squad broke in all directions, panic welling up in their breasts as they dove for cover.

xxx

'Are you ready to talk?'

A small smile quirked at the corners of Corgan's mouth. He was almost enjoying this now. They'd slackened off his bonds so that he could roll his shoulders forward, allowing him to breath properly – they couldn't have him suffocating. He'd completely lost track of time, so he didn't know how long he'd been held, but that didn't matter to him as much as it did to them.

'I'm hurt, anyone would think I'd been giving you the silent treatment!'

'In a way you have.'

'So untie me, what harm could it possibly do? It's not like I'd have any chance of escape…'

'You are a clever man, Escabar Corgan. We respect that. We would not be talking to you at all if it were not for your reputation.'

'I left reputation's behind me a long time ago,' Corgan replied with a weight of bitterness.

'On the contrary, my friends tell me that you are a man who gets things done. We have a great need for a man such as you.'

Corgan sneered.

'Unfortunately for you, I have a certain attachment to the whole staying alive concept. Throwing my lot in with xenos would be a death sentence for me on any Imperial world. I'd be a marked man… Been there, didn't care for it.'

'You know who I am.' The shrouded figure continued. 'You have deduced it, I know. You also know that my presence here is most extraordinary. How do you think I arrived here?'

'Cardinal Voldt's a busy system. A man like me could find a dozen ways to smuggle you in. Hell, I could get your whole family shipped in and the authorities would never know…'

'And my cadre? Would that be a feat beyond your capabilities?'

'Obstacles are there to be hurdled. Like I said, a man like me…'

'…Would find it extremely difficult to smuggle an entire Hunter Cadre across the militarised borders of the Damocles Gulf, let alone onto an Imperial world, even one as busy as this one. Face it… we had to have help.'

The interrogator paused to let this sink in, but Corgan just shrugged as best he could. After all, he had no idea how big a hunter cadre was supposed to be.

The alien raised his hands to his cowl. Corgan saw that they were three fingered and the skin had a slight blue tinge to it. Then the cowl was thrown back to reveal a hairless, slab-featured head with two eyes on either side of a long, vertical crease. The mouth was set into a pugnacious jaw, with heavy lips and a cleft chin. The eyes were milky and almost human, heavy with a weight of knowledge.

'Allow me to introduce myself. I am Shas'o Kalyth. And this, is my friend, Inquisitor Faylen…'

The door swung open to reveal a slender figure, resplendent in a long black surcoat edged with red frogging, gold buttons and knee high boots of glossy black leather over sable leggings. The woman that entered the room was at once alluring and repellent, with a haughty bearing that spoke in measures of being accustomed to authority.

'Greetings, Escabar Corgan. We meet again, although I believe I was travelling under the name of Shalta Parnassus when last our paths crossed.'

Corgan went cold as he recognised the name and the face fell into place.

'You were with Armenio… at Five Rivers…'

Faylen smiled a cruel smile and placed a single fist on a generous hip, adopting a seductive poise.

'Very good. Now, O'Kalyth here tells me he's been having some trouble securing your aid in our joint venture here on Cardinal Voldt. Would you care to re-evaluate the strength of your hand, Major, or shall I cut it off for you?'


	8. A Singular Turn of Events

Night began to fall over the city like a cowl. Evening mass was called, the bells of the many great basilicas tolling the ninth hour. Even as the battle around the depot waxed and waned the city at large went about its predetermined routine with dogged denial. The fresh Praetorians fought until they weren't so fresh any more. The Orrax troopers came through their exhaustion, conserving strength where they could, more accustomed to the rigours of relentless battle. The ardour of battle made boys into men and men into corpses. The reaper watched over all with grim indifference, harvesting men and xenos with equal devoir.

To the west of the depot Darron was holed up with his platoon in a series of broken down old habs. It was a conglomeration of condemned buildings, now little more than burnt out, skeletal shells. The upper floors were more or less accessible, although the walls and floors were full of charred holes and clung precariously to the supporting structure.

As the sun dipped behind the three spires of the inner city hive stacks, the assault on his position intensified. Kroot warriors flitted through the wreck-littered street supported by the shorter and bulkier forms of human mercenaries. The Orrax occupying elevated positions started picking off those that showed too much of themselves while the men on the ground floor waited anxiously for the assault.

An inhuman roar went up. The deep throated cries of the humans were strung through with the higher pitched warbling of the kroot as they charged forward, closing the distance rapidly. Several went down as the men on the ground responded but it quickly came down to hand to hand fighting, using rifle butts, bayonets and entrenching tools.

Blood, bone and sinew painted the apertures of the building as the hard-bitten Orrax locked claws with the mercenaries. The defence was stalwart, a score or more of their enemies lay dead or bleeding before they realised that the tide of bodies wasn't slackening off.

'Fall back positions!' Darron yelled. He stomped his way up a flak board ramp to the next level and dropped to one knee behind a broken wall to cover his back. Three of his men followed him up, taking up positions at stairways and other accessible points further in. A few moments of respite followed.

The mercenaries had been presented with a choice. They could pass through unmolested and attack the depot. This would leave them with no easy line of retreat. Alternatively they could spend time and blood to winkle the Orrax troopers out of their defensive positions. Neither prospect was particularly wholesome. They chose the latter.

Two kroot warriors pounded up the ramp, rifles held loosely in gangly limbs. Darron put a burst of las through them both, sending them tumbling back into another pair behind them. They opted for more caution, sending a grenade arcing up to clatter a foot or so to Darron's left. He scooped it up quickly and tossed it back, gaining a measure of grim satisfaction with the results.

'Getting hot on the north side, sarge…' cried Dror from somewhere behind him.

'Second floor!' he replied, dropping a live tube charge at the head of the ramp as he displaced. The mercs piled up after them only to be decimated by the detonation.

The scrap on the second floor was even more ferocious. Grenades were useless, too many holes in the floor making it difficult to place them accurately. It quickly boiled down to a close range firefight that put Darron and his boys at an advantage, having had time to prepare their positions before the assault.

Mercs died as they tried to gain stairways, shot through the floors where there were gaps big enough to shoot though. Others found themselves tumbling down dead-drops just as they reached the top of a stairway, plummeting into the foundations two or three storeys below. Those that made it past these obstacles were ambushed from either side, clubbed to death or blasted from close range.

After less than seven minutes of brutal combat the mercenaries bolted, fleeing the building in disarray. Darron's bloodied squads took up defensive positions once more.

'How long can they keep this up?' asked Dror.

'I don't know but we should get a respite rotation set up, one squad off with the other two on guard, rotating every hour until we can be sure they aren't coming back.'

With heavy limbs the men and women of Orrax settled in for a long night of watchful uncertainty. Out in the darkness they could hear the crackle of distant gunfire as the enemy tested the depot's defences elsewhere.

xxx

Vaughn kept his head down over dinner. His neighbours at the long, plush dining table tried in vain to engage him in conversation. His guard was up and he replied with brief, almost curt answers only when directly addressed. He teetered on the brink of politeness, wary of plunging head first over the edge but nevertheless feeling the urge to leap.

Something was in the air. He didn't know how he knew it, but his instincts were telling him that all was not as it seemed. The veneer of hospitality in the room was less than skin deep.

After the meal his instincts were vindicated when he was drawn into a private antechamber. The Lord General was there along with Major Breton and a man in a brown leather trenchcoat that he hadn't met before and who hadn't attended the meal.

The Lord General was seated in an archaic mechanical chair behind a desk littered with data slates and scrolls. He looked for all the world like a senile old dotard. Drool hung from the corner of his mouth and flecks of foam sprayed from his lips as he greeted the commissar.

'Be at ease, friend,' he crackled, gesticulating expansively in his marionette-like fashion. 'Welcome to my humble abode.'

'I was pleased to be able to accept the invitation, Lord General. The fare was incomparably superior to the rations issued to my regiment,' said Vaughn, coldly.

'Will you take brandy?' asked the Major, moving to an antique cabinet filled with expensive liquor.

'Thank you.' Vaughn accepted a crystal tumbler from the Lord General's man, swirling the deep brown liquid but not tasting it. 'Forgive my impertinence, Lord General, but may I ask the reason for my invitation?'

'I was just about to get to that point, Commissar,' Chaffed drooled, waving a spindly arm in the Major's direction. 'Major Breton?'

The Lord General's adjutant stiffened, visibly tense, it appeared that some force of will was needed to summon his words in a clear, confident tone, Vaughn wonder why that might be. Breton had been friendly and affable on their arrival and before the Lord General had deigned to grace them with his presence. Now he was cagey and struggling to hide his nerves.

'As per the Lord General's orders,' he began, businesslike on the exterior, 'the 567th was assigned to enforce martial law in the outer suburbs of Hive Trachiad between waypoints 325 and 475. Up until this morning reports had led us to believe this was going according to plan. Can you explain exactly how it was that an all out military engagement was allowed to break out in the Kella District?'

'I can only repeat what has already been detailed in our reports to command HQ, Major. The skirmish was already in full flow when our MP units in the locale responded to distress calls from the Paenar Praetorians. Major Corgan, as per his orders, assembled a force to enforce the peace, with the secondary intention of providing relief for the Praetorian wounded. It is undoudtedly this timely response that allowed the Praetorian unit to continue on mission, albeit under strength.'

'And the fracas at the fuel depot? I understand it is still going strong and that the 567th has a considerable presence…'

'You understand correctly, sir. Under the auspices of the Praetorian commanding officer the 567th has granted a certain level of aid in taking and holding the depot as they had been ordered. Sergeant Valint was of the understanding that he had not the resources left to achieve his objective, but with help he was convinced that it was possible.'

'I see. I would say that agreeing to this would put Captain Arines and the 567th well beyond the remit laid down for them by the Lord General. Would you agree?'

'Beg pardon, sir, but I would not. The enemy is dissolute and difficult to pin down. They are using guerrilla tactics well suited to the terrain. The 567th is merely doing what they have been told to do by maintaining martial law in the area surrounding the fuel depot. It just happens that this coincides with the objectives laid down for the Praetorian unit.'

'Hm!' Breton almost shrugged. Vaughn could see in his reaction that he was convinced by this logic, and yet he was obviously under orders to maintain an air of scepticism.

'I understand that Major Corgan has been listed as missing in action, would it not fall to you to lead the regiment in battle?'

'In ordinary circumstances perhaps it would, but the 567th has not been deployed as a conventional line unit. I was charged with maintaining discipline and order from the central command post. We have new recruits who will need to be broken in. I am the best qualified to do this. As for the Major, contact was lost during the morning skirmish as he went in pursuit of a mercenary unit. No body has yet been recovered and Arines decided that a search and rescue operation would stretch the regiment too thin, what with all the hostile activity in the area. Arines himself is an eminently capable man.'

'We shall see. I cannot help but call his decision making into question, but then the same already applies to Major Corgan. In all honesty this day has been a complete debacle in the Lord General's eyes.'

'I don't understand how that can be the case, sir. The 567th is pursuing an enforced peace, putting down rebels and mercenaries that have spread like a cancer throughout the district. The Praetorians have taken their objective and as yet have held stoically onto it, albeit with help. May I ask what would you have done differently?'

'I am not beholden to answer to you, Commissar,' Chaffed drawled, taking the reigns firmly in hand once more. 'But let us not quibble over today's events. Despite the loss of life we appear to have made certain gains. Instead let us steer our course in a slightly different direction. The man standing to my left is one of stature in certain Imperial circles. He has brought various things to my attention and I would like know your thoughts on them. Inquisitor Dross, would you care to take the floor?'

'Yes, of course,' said the brown-coated man, bursting into quick, efficient motion as he moved to the desk and took up a dataslate. He fixed a pair of optics to the bridge of his nose and held the slate at arm's length as he scanned the contents.

'I would like to ask you a few questions, Commissar, about your commanding officer and certain events that may or may not have transpired on the non-compliant world of Fered Roathi IV some four years ago.'

Dross paused for effect, letting the import of his words sink in. Vaughn felt beads of cold sweat spring up on his temples. Fered Roathi was Pandora's Box for the 567th. There was no telling what you might find if you asked too many questions. For Vaughn it was the crucible that had moulded him into the man he was. But very little of what had happened in that war would stand up to a determined interrogation.

'After the initial assault on Pelloris Ridge,' Dross continued, speaking in curt, clipped tones and sounding as though he were addressing a court room, 'and the clandestine operations undertaken by various elements of the penal battalion, there commenced a period of occupation preceding the final assault on the Administratum complex. Is this correct?'

'Yes, sir. We spent several weeks consolidating our position whilst simultaneously trying to contain the enemy forces within the complex itself.'

'I see. At this time, Major Corgan had been promoted from within the ranks of the penitent to Centurion.' He made this statement sound like a question. Vaughn stayed silent.

'This in itself seems strange to me, despite his "heroic" deeds. But to note that he was subsequently elevated to regimental commander in time for the final assault seems incredible.'

'It was a singular turn of events, Inquisitor.'

'Let me rephrase, Commissar, in order to make plain the scale of my incredulity; I would not, in a million years, give any credence to the rumour that such a man could advance so quickly through the ranks as evidenced by these reports.'

Another pregnant pause. Vaughn stood and sweated, feeling like he was being interrogated.

'This scepticism led me to dig a little deeper into the archives. I have to say that what I discovered disturbed me greatly. This,' he waved another data slate in Vaughn's direction, 'was sealed by Inquisitorial mandate, the signature belongs to none other than Inquisitor Armenio himself, an influential member of the Ordos who I believe was ultimately involved in the purging of the Administratum complex. It contains detailed information on the investigation centred around a flurry of deaths within the Fifth Legion. These deaths followed hot on the heels of Major Corgan's initial promotion to Centurion. I'm sure you remember, Commissar, after all you were the one that headed up the investigation?'

'I do remember. I was initially charged with investigating the suspicious death of Centurion Halwin. This led me to make certain assumptions and possible connections to other deaths amongst the regimental elite. Unfortunately there was never any concrete proof in order to arrive at a conviction.'

'Indeed. There were suspects, however?'

'Yes, sir.'

'The prime suspect was none other than Major Corgan himself, was he not? How did you arrive at this dissemination?'

'Initially through the fact that he benefited from each of these deaths. He was able to provide alibis for all of them, but none were what I'd call watertight.'

'I find it hard to believe that a reliable scapegoat was ruled out in such a matter. Surely someone had to be called to task?'

'You must understand, Inquisitor. Many of the men we took from Orrax were killers; Guard deserters, murderers, gangers from all the hive worlds of the segmentum. The more suspicious deaths could have been put down to any number of these shady types. The other deaths, despite my suspicions, could just as easily have been mere coincidence, being brought about by their own internecine politics or the machinations of the enemy.'

'Happy coincidence for our man Corgan, wouldn't you say?'

'Without doubt. But I must say that since his advancement I have never found him wanting. Nor have I once had cause to engage in summary execution since his ascension. He is not a good man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I have come to believe that he is a great man. You will not find a single trooper within the 567th that would disagree.'

'That is very charming, Commissar Vaughn. How do the men of your regiment feel about the very real possibility that this morning he deserted from the Imperial Guard to further pursue his own inexplicable ends?'

'That's preposterous…'

'Hardly,' Dross sneered, tossing the data slate back onto the desk with a derisory motion. 'His record speaks for itself. Even before his internment on Orrax he proved himself to have an ingenious, self-serving criminal intellect. When his illegal interests on Necromunda were threatened by a legitimate Guild concern he did nothing less than incite a turf war that could have sent Hive Primus itself spiralling into anarchy. It is by fortune alone that he was captured, and should he not have been executed for his crimes. Of course, so why was he spared?'

Dross had no intentions of waiting for an answer.

'I'll tell you why… the judge that presided over his case was bought off. Corgan had already planned for the eventuality and had, through his own shadowy machinations, managed to put a very influential law-man in his very pocket.

'I'll not speak at any length of the murderous time he spent on Orrax, suffice it to say that a number of corpses were put at his feet.

'And then, when he signed up for the penal legions and was shipped to his inevitable doom on Fered Roathi he manage to slip fate once again. He was brought to the courts martial accused of gross negligence during the assault on Pelloris Ridge and it is my opinion that he was only acquitted by dint of incompetence on the prosecution's part. And you! You yourself were pressed into defending this ignoble man, whom you would later come to suspect of the multiple murders of his entire command cadre!'

Dross walked the floor with a passion as he laid down his diatribe, gesticulating wildly with his arms and going red in the face with sheer outrage. Vaughn felt himself shrinking into his great-coat. Suddenly his peaked cap felt three sizes too big. He couldn't think for long enough to wonder where this summation was headed, but he knew that there was a bar of lead settling in his stomach.

'I put it to you, Commissar,' Dross continued, his tones coming down to less fervent levels, 'that it was none other than Draven himself, afflicted by some sycophantic urge to play along with this man's subterfuge, that suppressed the findings of your investigation into the deaths of his superior officers. Armenio was his cohort in this, accessory to the gross injustice that has been perpetrated…'

'I refute that statement, Inquisitor. Commissar-General Draven is an upright man…'

'Do not speak to me of Draven, Commissar. He is now and has always been wreathed in corruption! There can be no denying it!'

Vaughn clenched his jaw. So much of what the Inquisitor was saying had the ring of truth to it and yet the import of what he was saying would have far reaching consequences that would bring a great many influential men down in disgrace. Vaughn had always suspected Corgan of orchestrating those deaths, perhaps even perpetrating them himself. He always was the hands-on type. And yes, it had rankled when Draven had called the young bloodhound-Vaughn off his scent, but since that day he had seen Corgan – with all his flaws – lead the 567th with stoic good sense and unstinting bravery.

And to insult Draven! Oh, the very man that had imparted to Vaughn everything he held to be true and right in the Imperium,… that was calling Vaughn himself into question. If the mighty Raven was corrupt, then Vaughn must, by his very association, be complicit in that corruption.

He felt himself reach a crossroads. It was so sudden that for a moment he could have sworn the floor had been swept from beneath his feet.

'All is not lost, Commissar Vaughn,' Dross breathed, soft as goose-down. He fixed his blood-shot eyes on the younger man with an intense, proprietary expression. 'You are not lost to us yet, my boy…'

Vaughn was faced with what might prove to be the most difficult choice of his adult life. Either road might lead to salvation, but neither was without its own perils. And for the first time since finding out about Corgan's disappearance, he began to think it might not be such a bad thing.

xxx

The darkness brought a morbid kind of peace down upon the Kella District, the reaper's black cloak drawn across the expanses of the sky.

The fuel depot remained in Imperial hands. The mercenaries had broken and faded into the adjacent neighbourhood. It had not been achieve bloodlessly. The cost was high.

Lita had been shipped back to HQ minus a foot. As if that wasn't bad enough her second, Loeval, was dead, his entire squad listed as missing. Frocar had tried to move up into the ground she had won but they were forced back by snipers, barely managing to get Lita's surviving troopers clear.

Darron had taken significant losses as well, fighting a close-quarters battle throughout the broken ruins to the west. But the Praetorians had borne the brunt of the fighting, backed up by a severely under-strength Cerberus Company. Valint maintained command and he wore it well, bolstering his men and the men that had joined him with Woltz's timely arrival and subsequent untimely lapse into unconsciousness.

At midnight the tankers arrived. Those few pumps that were still operable and deemed safe to use were put to work replenishing the Imperial Guard's waning fuel supplies.

Today it was victory. Tomorrow was destined to be just another day in the Guard!


	9. Your Nemesis Comes

**First Interlude – On an unknown world in the southern galactic fringe**

Shadows twisted away from the figure as it advanced down the long tunnel, a lamp high hovering at its left shoulder. The heavy robes that completely concealed the man rustled as he passed narrow side-clefts in the natural rock formation, mingling with the barely audible trickle of the stream, somewhere underfoot. The hard light of the outside world, barely penetrating the entrance to the tunnel, was already but a pin-prick in the dim distance behind him. The figure marched on.

The tunnel began to twist, first left, then right, descending now steeply into the bowels of the planet's crust. The rocks at this depth were crystalline as if they had been created in the boiling of the planet's magma in some cataclysmic inferno. The lamp picked out glass-like facets in the rocky walls and paper-thin geodes absorbed it hungrily, glowing in many hues with their new-stolen energy.

The amorphous shadow of a man continued doggedly onward, his feet sending pebbles tracked in from above skittering deeper into the tunnel as it spiralled down into the abyssal darkness. The bulb of light hovered at his shoulder like a lost soul on the road to damnation. Together they travelled into the vaults as if bound for the depths of hell.

The tunnel gave out into a long dead magma chamber. The floor levelled out, melding from uneven stone to a plumbed metallic grille work as he entered the installation at the heart of the Rift. Most of it loomed invisible above him, a behemoth of steel struts and bulkheads, a sleeping dragon made of rockrete and iron, filling the vast underground chamber. Predominantly unlit, cold and dead, the installation had long been manned by only the minimum of personnel. Now it was colonised by a virtual colony of menials and mercenaries. One of great generators had been reactivated to provide them with power, but even this was not enough to revive the beast.

The robed figure passed through the mercenary cordon unchallenged. Hard faced killers refused to make eye contact with the mysterious figure, looking away as he penetrated their perimeter. These were the dregs of humanity, cold-hearted murderers whose only motivation was that of cold, hard cash. But even these men would not seek the attention of the new arrival. An aura of forbidding went before him and surrounded him.

He passed through the massive portal, admitting himself to the arterial concourse that ran through the heart of the complex. Here and there along the walls were pools of cold light where men gathered around portable heater units powered by miniature generators. The installation's one operable generator was dedicated to the mysterious goings on in the innermost chambers. The mercenary retinue had to make do with what they had brought in themselves.

The robed man passed by, silence preceding him and following in his wake as the clusters of men sensed him come near and ceased their aimless chatter. Each of them felt a shudder travel down his spine and a sense of unease infused their veins, causing small hairs to stand and capillaries dilate.

At the far end of the great corridor he halted before another equally massive portal, this one magnetically sealed and guarded by one man and the hunched forms of several arco-flagellants, curled up in the shadows to either side.

'Master… you have come…'

'You will open the door,' said the robed man, his voice reedy and thin, beautiful and yet simultaneously as repellent as the aura that surrounded him.

The guardian leapt to obey. The grinding of ancient, rusted gears was like the belly-growl of some primordial dragon. The metal decking vibrated underfoot as a crack wide enough to admit the robed man formed in the durasteel portal. He passed through like the wraith he was, lowering the lamp as he entered a dimly lit mezzanine.

Another of the inner circle stood within and ushered him to the elevator cage that had been restored to safe working order. Together they rattled down into the very heart of the complex, far beneath the volcanic bedrock, to a series of small laboratories that had never seen the light of any star.

The elevator operator bowed as the master stepped out of the cage.

'Return to the upper chambers. Do not return until I signal you,' the robed man commanded. The operator hurriedly pressed the green button and rattled upward in his cage

Two strangely formed figures emerged from the laboratory that branched off the left hand side of the narrow corridor. Their skulls were oddly shaped, their skin giving the impression they were suffering from prolonged hypoxia. Their bodies were stocky and encased in exoskeletal augmentation that also supported a halo of mechanical orbs above their cranial plates. Their feet were strangely twisted and their hands inhuman, their eyes rested with unfaltering intensity upon the man no one else could bear to be around.

'Ah, my pretties, our reunion is a tonic for my tortured soul. Has the archon arrived?'

They nodded in unison, parting to allow him to pass between them and into the side-room. Another figure waited within, rakishly tall and whip-cord thin, with dark, skin-tight mesh armour covering his lupine body. The archon turned his baleful glare upon the newcomer.

'By the Black Heart of Vect, where have you been?' he hissed, his body tensing like a coiled spring.

'Be still,' the robed man replied, offhandedly. 'My comings and goings are none of your business, Shakael. You have sworn yourself to my cause and you will obey me until such time as an opportunity to sink a blade in my back arises. Not before.'

'I have no need to go sneaking around behind you in order to bring that about, creature! My knife will sheath itself in your bowels the moment your usefulness to me expires.'

'That is as it may be. For now, I have a small undertaking for you.'

'What is it this time?'

'The Hunter has arrived. He is headed here as we speak and he must be stopped. Capture him if you can. You may kill the rest.'

'Ah, finally a task worthy of my skills. Very well then, I will gather my warriors.'

The archon sauntered out of the room, passing close to the robed form to show that he was not afraid to close the distance between them. Nevertheless the robed man could sense Shakael's distaste.

He waited for the warrior to leave by a different route to that he had used to enter, before passing through the laboratory and into the sparse chambers where he made his bed at night. Here the robes he wore were cast off, rustling to the floor to reveal a hideous parody of humanoid form. Grey, blotchy skin strained over his misshapen skull, long, gangling limbs bent at odd angles and were adorned with a multitude of scars and augmentations of macabre design. His spine curled to form an ugly hump that gave him a stooped appearance now that the robes were discarded.

He reached down to his belt and unhooked the Anathema, shedding the aura of repellence to become little more than a misshapen crone. The silver belt with its black-hearted stones became dormant without the warmth of flesh to feed it. He hung it on the back of the door to his chambers and covered it with his borrowed robes.

At the head of his pallet was a compact communications device that had been spliced into the main vox relay of the facility, sheathed in encryption codes to make it impossible to intercept and translate. He activated the screen and waited for the connection to be made. Before long the hooded form of the Master formed on the green-lit screen.

'Your nemesis comes, my lord!' the haemonculi hissed.

'He is slipping.' The vague, hooded form chuckled. 'I expected he would catch up with us long before. Shakael has been dispatched?'

'He has, Master. Even now he is moving to bring the quarry to ground. He will no longer be the thorn in our side.'

'Good. Make sure the contingency is in place to succeed where he has failed. And hold fast, my faithful servant. Soon all impediments to our work will be excised. Soon, the galaxy will be ours to mould as we see fit…'


	10. An Object Lesson

Inquisitor Faylen, known as Shalta Parnassus, albeit in another life and on another world. By some quirk of fate she stood before him, holding his life in her cruel hands. Corgan cursed under his breath. This was all he needed. All his manoeuvring with the Tau, all that leverage he was exerting… all for nothing.

'Do you remember the job you pulled on Vundt?'

That threw his already skewed perceptions for a veritable loop. He was reeling, but he was also a shrewd operator. When in doubt, lie through your teeth…

'What job? I've never been to Vundt.'

Faylen stepped closer to him, running a finger down the central line of his chest and looking at him through thick, black lashes. He fought for equilibrium, but she was having no problem at all keeping him off balance.

'I know there was a job.' She crowed. 'I know it was you that orchestrated it. I know exactly how much money you stole and where you deposited it. I know who your cohorts were and what their respective cuts were. And I know how the job came about. Who do you think provided you with the information in the first place?'

'If there was a job pulled on Vundt, you could have found out about it through any number of sources. You don't have anything you can pin on me.'

'Oh no,' she smiled, looking more like a cat with every mannerism she displayed. 'Then let me show you something.'

She activated a wrist-device, projecting a pict recording onto the whitewashed wall in front of Corgan. The reel had obviously been recorded on a small, hand-held recording device, the picture was unsteady and moved in and out of focus. But the picture was clear enough. She paused it at a pertinent interval, the image clearly delineated Corgan and Darron as they broke into an office and snatched the merchandise.

'You see, the man on the left is clearly you, there's no mistaking those rugged good looks and that oh-so-distinctive scar,' she smirked, mockingly. 'The other man is one of your squad leaders, Darron D'Jonas. A bit too boyish for my tastes, though he is certainly good at what he does. The man you kidnapped… well, you know who he is!'

Corgan's face hardened as the proof played out before him. The reel cut after a few seconds as the first reel was edited into a second, taken from a different point of view. A matt-black valkyrie, scrubbed of all insignia, moved through the crowded skies of the populous sub-sector capital. A third edit showed it coming to land in a dilapidated cargo storage unit in one of the many sink-communities of the sprawling hives of Vundt.

'Where did you get that footage?' Corgan growled, knowing she had him by the balls.

'I think a more pertinent question would be, how did all of this come to pass at all, don't you?'

'I built that operation from the ground up, there was no way anyone could've known what we were doing.'

'There you are wrong. You were led to investigate the practicalities of this particular swindle by hints and pointers deliberately planted in your path by my organisation. You were hooked on my rod and I've had you in the net for two years. You didn't even realise it.'

Corgan shook his head in disbelief, but he was starting to think the foundations beneath his feet were made of quicksand.

'Okay, let's say you're that clever and I was duped,' he reasoned, taking a low, menacing tone. 'What evidence do you have to suggest that this wasn't in fact a fatal error on your part?'

Faylen laughed. It was a high, lilting sound that was as cold as the permafrost of Orrax.

'Why, the very fact that I have you trussed up like a prize porker, my dear Escabar.'

'And yet you haven't killed me, which tells me you have some further need of my services.'

'Indeed. No one will ever accuse you of being stupid, my dear. Let me come down and level with you. The aforementioned ruse on Vundt, which I might add made you a very wealthy man, was not orchestrated with the intention of humiliating you, nor even of blackmailing you. I know you better than that. It was done because the funds embezzled by Tordoph Raize had to be taken out of certain… other monetary equations. You were the only person we trusted to do it right.'

'So why not come out and speak to me openly?'

Faylen smiled her enigmatic smile once more.

'You question my methods. But then I would not expect any less, I suppose. Let's just surmise that I made a judgement call, reasoning that you would immediately view my request with distrust, therefore reducing the likelihood of you undertaking this work. As it happened you lapped up the pointers we secreted around you far quicker than we were expecting. I had thought to take the long view but your efficacy nearly set me off-guard. You are a far sharper tool than we initially gave you credit for.'

'I'm flattered,' Corgan replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

'You should be. Very few people could meet the standards of a sanctioned Inquisitor. But now I'm sure you would like me to cease with this flirtation and get to the point, hmm?'

'That would be grand!'

Faylen straightened, smoothing the form-fitting leather storm-coat over her trim figure and adopting a more businesslike poise that was, nevertheless, alarmingly sensual.

'The funds you recovered were to be used to build an army. Someone was going to use it to hire mercenaries from every backwater world in this and neighbouring sub-sectors. This self-same-someone has been eluding us for many years. The hunt continues, but we believe we are getting closer to him. We may even have a name to call him by at long last.

'We believe we have managed to corner him here, or at least something that he needs desperately to fulfil his nefarious schemes. Unfortunately we cannot ascertain which of the above it is, even with the help of these, our allies.'

'And that's where I come in, only this time I take it subtle hints weren't an option.'

'You must forgive my bluntness. I tried, initially, to appeal to your better nature through the virtue of my allies. But it seems that you don't really have one…'

'It might be useful for you to remember that in the future,' Corgan grinned, wolfishly.

'In some circumstances it is a valuable trait, but you understand I had to try…'

'I would probably have done the same, but I've learned that sometimes it's worth spending that little bit more to get the desired level of service. What is it you want me to do?'

'Very well, it seems we must cut to the chase! Our friends, the Tau…'

'Correction: Your friends, the Tau!'

Faylen graciously nodded her acceptance.

'They were duped by my quarry into turning their technological minds to certain conundrums. The upshot was that they developed a specialised suit of tactical armour incorporating a powerful fusion cutter, the purpose of which is as yet unclear. Whilst they were doing this in co-operation with the mark, he was doing his best to steal as much of their technological knowledge as he could, as well as conducting biological experiments on individuals he had kidnapped. He left the sept-world under somewhat of a cloud, as you might imagine.

'The ranking military commander of the sept vowed to recover everything that our man stole from them, swearing a binding oath that he would die before admitting defeat. He pursued his enemy here and through ingenious covert methods was able to smuggle a sizeable military cadre down onto the planet while his fleet elements maintained a covert blockade. The orbital defences of Cardinal Voldt are not extensive, but enough of an alert was raised to prompt some kind of response from the Imperial Navy. This was compounded by the advent of hostilities between the hunter cadre and the assets secured by the quarry upon his own arrival.'

'Don't tell me, mercenaries hired using embezzled funds from the sub-capital Administratum?'

'Precisely, a font of near-unlimited funds that you have since snatched from his grasp.'

'So how is he keeping them on?'

'He still has some funding, probably from corrupt elements of Trachiad's ruling elite. But the situation has devolved into a state of constant skirmishing. It is not known how many of the mercenary elements loose within the city are still reporting to our quarry and how many are simply throwing their weight around in an attempt to gather funds to get off-world.'

'They'll be lucky, surely the Naval blockade has put a stop to that.'

'Indeed, and before that the Tau fleet was ghosting the system. As I said, we're not sure who is fighting for whom anymore. The one thing we are certain of is that he is still well-hidden and well protected.'

'So the Guard turn up and try to instate martial law, only to discover they're being led by a moron with less tactical nouse than a bottom-feeding mollusc and get totally shafted where the sun won't shine because they're trying to fight a conventional war on unconventional terms. Am I right?'

'Why Escabar, how is it that you have avoided recruitment into the Inquisition?' Faylen smiled. 'You are correct, but we cannot be certain that the reasons for Lord General Chaffed's failure are not more sinister than you deduce…'

'What does that mean?'

'We believe he may have been co-opted by our enemies and is deliberately prosecuting the war inefficiently. Our only evidence to the contrary is that surely he would have found a way to smuggle our quarry off planet by now. We are trying to discern his motivations, but have so far been unsuccessful.'

'Okay, so if that's the scenario, where to I fit in?'

'Once again it seems that you are to be the fulcrum about which this whole situation will pivot. Lacking any better information I would surmise that my agents off world have had a hand in bringing about your timely arrival. I have one, preferably two things that I would like you to do for me.

'First, I need you to get to the heart of the Lord General's motivations. This should not be as difficult as you might think, we have already set certain things in motion that may help. Second, I need you to undertake a covert insertion into the hive city and find our target. He must be taken alive so that we can extract the information we need from him.'

'That's a pretty tall order by anyone's standards,' Corgan replied. 'If you believe the rumours, the hive's a death trap even for its own citizens.'

'You will have certain advantages at your disposal, not least of which would be your own personal upbringing, the well-spring from whence your unparalleled abilities first came.'

'If I say yes will you untie me?'

'Yes, after these last few words of… shall we say, encouragement. Without me you will never get off this planet alive. I realise that you don't like being threatened, so we will call this particular portent a promise, shall we?'

Corgan grinned.

'I never could turn down a challenge! I'll do it.'

xxx

Vreyis leant his bandaged head back against the mildewed bricks and groaned piteously. Coalin barked vehemently at him to shut up.

'I swear I can't take his mewling any more…' he growled, clenched fists knuckling his prodigious forehead.

'Cool off, Coal!' said Listra, kneeling beside the prone form of Billis. Despite the tourniquet his blood had pooled across the concrete foundations of the basement room they were holed up in. The pile of stinking rags underneath him was soaked in claret. A pulse fluttered weakly at his throat but his eyes were already glazing over.

'We need to get him to triage!' Gussto cried, pacing backwards and forwards.

'And just how do you think we're going to get him there before he bleeds out, you moron!' Coalin shouted, balled fists quivering at his sides, ready to mete out his frustrations on his beleaguered squad mates.

'We can't just sit here,' Gussto replied, too weary to be afraid of the imposing brute.

'Walk out that door and you give away our position,' said Coalin. 'You wanna end up like that sack of shit?' he pointed at Vreyis.

'I'd think the blood trail we left behind us would do for a clue, don't you, Coalin?'

With a roar, Coalin fell upon Gussto and delivered a series of heavy blows that laid the man out. Listra and Esthan had to drag him off and sit on him to calm him down.

'We're never gonna get out of here if we don't pull together,' the vox-man cried in his reedy voice, so incongruous coming from his meat-headed frame.

Esthan nodded emphatically, unable to vocalise a response due to the lack of a tongue and left mandible. He'd lost them on Gunga IV and hadn't been treated in time to fit a prosthetic. The story of how he'd fought on for seven hours after having received his wound had taken on legendary status in the regiment. Coalin didn't care, he was rooting for a fight after the kicking they'd received the night before.

Vreyis forced himself up out of the fog of pain that had enveloped him to contribute to the conversation. He hefted the bulk of his Hellgun ominously, it hadn't left his grip even when shards of Loeval's skull tore out his eyes.

'If you lot don't quiet down I'll cap you all, eyes or no eyes! Someone check on Billis!'

Listra checked again. The rhythm of his breathing had become laboured, slowing to less than six breaths per minute. Still the stump of his leg refused to stop oozing. The minutes ground by interminably as they focused on that raspy breathing, all the while wondering whether it would be followed by another. They were helpless to do anything to help. A black cloud of fear settled over them and each man retreated into his own thoughts.

By the time the dawn light came slanting through the narrow, street-level windows high in the basement walls, Billis was dead.

xxx

Arines kept his men at a respectful, but imposing distance. He had argued long and hard against this course of action, but from the moment of Valint's deed he'd known this would be the only outcome.

Woltz reclined in a bath chair wheeled out for him by the medicae staff, but he lingered on site, delaying the treatment of his wounded for precious minutes, insistent upon seeing his 'justice' enacted.

They brought Valint out, slumped between two of his fellow Praetorians, men that he had seen through the hell-storms of the previous night, but who would now bring about his end. As soon as Woltz had come to he'd ordered Valint's arrest and had him thrown in with the few mercs they'd manage to take prisoner. That gesture was not lost on anyone.

They tied him to a metal support strut that had been shorn off ten metres from the ground by incoming rockets. The canopy's edge cast a ragged shadow along the ground where it had been obliterated. Valint slumped against his restraints, barely recognisable from the man he had been last night under the filth and blood. The steel had gone out of his formerly stalwart frame. He was a broken man.

Arines cast his eyes over the gathering, seeing the discomfiture plainly in the postures and expressions of the Praetorians. Even Woltz's own junior officers, their gold frogging gone to rags or plastered with grime, were clearly ill at ease.

'The perimeter guards report no activity, sir!' said Paddy, approaching from his blind side on the feet of a cat. 'It's like they've given up on this place…'

'Could be a trick. Tell the men to stay alert.'

Paddy nodded, lingering a moment longer than necessary, but his words stuck in his throat.

'I know, boy. I know. I've done all I can for Valint but this was always going to happen. If not here then in some dingy cellblock back at the pen. Better here, I say, at the site of his heroism.'

'It's not right, Ben,' Paddy replied, protocol slipping in his frustration.

Arines smiled, sadly.

'Go carry out my orders, son. Best you don't watch this, eh?'

Paddy moved away, passing a knot of dust-covered Orrax as he loped up and over the rubble-piled barricade. Arines turned back to the scene unfolding before him.

The parade sergeant, Bors, had called up a detail of six men to carry out the sentence. They stood in a ragged line, murmuring insubordinately and harbouring dark expressions.

'Calm down, boys,' Arines said under his breath. 'Don't go making heroes of yourselves. One is enough for today…'

'Firing detail, present arms!' shouted Bors, in his best parade drill bark. Training took over and the detail came stiffly to attention.

'Take aim!' Six lasrifles thudded into shoulders, straps wrapped expertly around forearms and braced, muzzles primed in Valint's direction. At a nod from Woltz, Bors gave the final, fateful word.

'Fire!'

Six rifles cracked, the sound bouncing from the concrete walls all around and reverberating ominously over the gathering. The rifles dipped to three quarters as the wall behind Valint erupted. Six las-bolts missed their intended target and buried themselves in the brickwork. The gathering took up a grumbling murmur. Woltz stiffened.

'What is this insubordination?' he muttered, waving curtly at Bors to get on with it.

'Take aim, you curs!' Bors grated, though his belly didn't seem to be behind the insult.

'Fire!'

Again the accused slumped unharmed in his bindings as the wall behind him was punished in his stead. Woltz was livid!

'Sergeant, as soon as these men are rotated back to barracks I want them assigned to RIP duty. I'll not have such impudent ineptitude festering in the heart of my company. Understood?'

Bors saluted, clipping his heels together.

'Shall I assemble a new detail, sir?'

'No. You will carry out the sentence yourself.'

Bors spun on his heel without hesitation , his laspistol braced in one hand as he thumbed the power-up rune. A second later he opened fire, placing six, perfectly aimed lasbolts through the man's bucking torso.

Silence returned. Valint slumped even further into his bonds, six smoking holes in his chest, almost certainly dead.

Woltz signalled to the medicae orderly and he was wheeled over to the ambulae convoy to be treated at the medical facility behind the lines. Arines stepped over to stand beside the parade sergeant, whose smoking gun was still clenched in his hand. Valint's limp corpse was already being taken down to be wrapped in black plastek.

'You did what you had to, sergeant. No regrets, eh?'

Bors looked at him, his pale blue eyes conflicted.

'This will be an object lesson for my regiment, Captain. With it I hope we can effect some real change in the upper echelons of command. We can't go on as we have been. Finally someone has done what had to be done, and his sacrifice will shine a light on the road we must tread behind him.'

'You should have been a priest, sergeant.'

'My dad was an Ecclesiarchy serf,' Bors replied. 'I spent most of my childhood running errands for holy men. You pick things up.'

'We know all about that in this regiment, Bors. We've been picking up waifs and strays since our inception. One more won't go amiss.'

Bors' eyes strayed back to the corpse as it was carried away.

'You'll take good care of him?'

'Oh don't worry, Bors.' Arines grinned, casting a look over his shoulder at the knot of Orrax troopers, one of whom was wearing a rather ill fitting set of fatigues. 'You've got yourself the martyr you needed and I've got myself a damned good platoon sergeant!'

The man in the ill-fitting uniform was approached by three of the Praetorians. One by one they shook hands with the Orrax, exchanging a final farewell with a man that bore a remarkable resemblance to the recently deceased Sergeant Valint.


End file.
